Levitas Fragosus
by BlackMercifulFaerie
Summary: When Ed loses something precious to him, he would give anything to reclaim it . . . However, is what he gains worth the price of what he has to give up? Talk about equivalency . . . [RoyEd, Mpreg]
1. That which is Forbidden

**Hey y'all! I'm back! Welcome to my world of insanity once again! (laughs) All right. First and foremost, I guess I have to post the warnings:**

**1) This is yaoi. RoyEd to be specific. No like, no read.**

**2) Character death . . . (stares blankly) I'm sorry . . .**

**3) This is an Mpreg. That means **_**male pregnancy**_**. If you don't agree with this, then (makes a whistling sound while pointing) the 'Back' button is right up there. I love answering questions and don't mind constructive criticism, really; I'll even take flames—however, if you're going to flame me, make sure it's because of my horrible writing skills and not because of the mpreg. **

**First of all, you were warned right here, silly.**

**And secondly, my mother works for a hospital, two of my friends are nursing majors, Nana (my friend/coauthor) is a pharmacy major, and I myself was once a biology major/chem. minor—I **_**know**_** that men can't get pregnant outside of a laboratory. So don't bother yelling it at me.**

**(sigh) But, if you feel the compulsion to scroll down and tell me how deplorably written and wretchedly conceived the story is, go right ahead. But, you must know that all flames will be fed to my corgi, Sooner . . . who certainly doesn't need them, believe you me. Also, I'm going to ask everyone to TRUST ME here, okay? Some things may seem strange, but I know what I'm doing and everything will be explained later on.**

**All right—now that that's out of the way, let's get on to the story.**

**Disclaimer: I own two FMA shirts, two DVDs, five mangas, and a book of the art . . . That's all. **

* * *

"_Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."_

-Norman Cousins

* * *

**Chapter I: That which is Forbidden . . .**

The chalk trembled violently in his unsteady hand, the path that would normally be a smooth, gently curving line showing signs of the pure, unbridled emotions that were surging through the young alchemist, inhibiting the task that he would find like second nature on any other occasion.

Any time but this.

The careful curve of the outermost circle of the array came to fruition by painstakingly slow degrees, but at last, Edward connected both ends and stood to double-check everything. Despite the desperation he felt to use the circle_now_, and despite the tiny voice that was screeching at him from the very depths of his racing mind that it was perfect, Ed did not act on those impulses. He knew that if one thing—one symbol, one line—was out of place, then everything could go very horribly wrong.

Then, he might never get Al back.

Edward didn't even know if this would work. He was well aware that human transmutation circles were meant for human transmutations. Body alchemy. Creating homunculi.

He didn't know whether or not he could definitively use the process to put Al's soul back into the now battered, lifeless armour. The blonde's amber, red-rimmed eyes unconsciously traveled to the crumpled pile of unfeeling steel, which now lay just outside the completed circle, silent and motionless. Ed bit back a sob and tore his eyes away from the cataphract—the thing that had been home to his brother's soul for so long.

His body, his corpse, his tomb.

The elder and only remaining Elric focused his thoughts back on the transmutation circle—the one he now had transcribed onto the hard concrete floor of the cemetery groundskeeper's vacant shed—studying the complicated design carefully.

After the failed attempt with their mother, the brothers had burned any and all written traces of the design for their human transmutation circle along with their house. All Edward had to go on was what his prodigal mind remembered from all those years ago.

And the pulsating array on his basement floor was one thing in particular that the teen would never be able to forget. He only hoped that his memory was accurate enough.

A sudden rush of adrenaline—coupled with the despair and rashness that he already had flooding his system—coursed through his veins like a toxin; with another quick, almost haphazard glance around the circle's perimeter, Ed nodded fiercely to himself, convinced that it was just as he had remembered it all those years ago.

The human transmutation circle.

The symbol of the ultimate taboo.

The thing that—he prayed to a god he wasn't sure existed—would bring his little brother back to him . . .

* * *

_Major Edward Elric peeked around the corner of the small house, his golden eyes narrowing as he scanned for any signs of movement. Though he couldn't see the bastards, he knew that the enemy was close._

_He could_ sense _them._

_Almost as if to prove that notion correct, a projectile was suddenly lobbed at his exposed head from the nearby bushes; Ed squeaked in surprise and yanked his face back, just as the object ricocheted off the side of the house._

Damnit_, the blonde teen thought heatedly to himself._ That was too close.

_Swallowing the lump of apprehension that had welled up in the back of his throat, Edward turned his tawny eyes to his small unit of six, seeing the anxiety, fear, and determination that he felt reflected right back at him. "All right troops," he said quietly, nodding to each of them in turn. "Here's the game plan. I need half of you—Mullins, Hicks, and . . . Potts—to stay put. You need to stand guard of our base of operations—protect it with your lives. Got it?"_

_The three soldiers indicated each gave a quick nod of assent, their eyes shining brightly, and Ed continued, "The rest of you—Falley, Caldwell, and Oord. You're gonna come with me. We're gonna move in and ambush the enemy base—we_ have _to capture that position at all costs, understand?_

"_Now," he said, straightening his stance. "Are there any questions?"_

_There was a moment of tense silence—the members of his small unit looking back and forth at one another nervously, clutching their weapons to their chests in giddy anticipation—before one small soldier near the back, Potts, raised her hand and spoke:_

"_Can we have a timeout? I have to go potty."_

_One of Edward's golden brows shifted position on his face and he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We're playing War here, Jessie," he explained as rationally as he could to the small child. "There __are__ no timeouts."_

_Of course, the little blonde girl's bladder was obviously not aware of the rules of the game and would have none of it. She squirmed about madly, her bright, blue eyes brimming with frustrated tears, and pressed her hands between her knees. "But I gotta _go_," she whined pitifully._

_Ed stared down at the wriggling form for several seconds, before sighing exasperatedly and reaching up to scratch distractedly at the base of his braid. "Fine," he yielded. "I'm sure Izumi will let you use her bathroom. Go ask her."_

_As Jessie Potts mumbled a hushed "thank you" and scampered off towards the front door, the alchemist turned back to the rest of his "troops" and asked tersely, "Anyone else?" The five remaining kids stared up innocently at the displeased look on their commander's face and quickly shook their heads in a unanimous negative. "Good," he said flatly._

_Turning back to gaze around the corner of Izumi Curtis' house, Edward scanned the yard for any signs of Alphonse or the other neighborhood children that had roped the unsuspecting brothers into this little game. Really, all they had wanted to do was stop by and pay a visit to their teacher for a few days on their way back from a mission—if Ed had known what he would end up getting himself into, he would have headed straight back to Central._

_Edward sighed dramatically and leaned his automail shoulder heavily against the side of the house. He was trying his hardest to get back to the task at hand and forget about the fact that he had just opted for spending his time in HQ, getting shouted at and picked on by his superior officer, rather than playing a game in the quiet town of Dublith._

_The Elric shook his blonde head. He didn't think the idea of young children learning tactical combat skills from a dog of the military would sit very well with their parents; however, Izumi had charged the older boys with keeping the children busy, this was what they wanted to play, and it would certainly be a cold day in hell when he would_ voluntarily _spend time with the colonel . . ._

"_Mr. Edward?"_

_The Fullmetal blinked as the small voice interrupted his reverie, and turned to look down at one of his soldiers. The large copper pot that the Caldwell boy was using as a helmet had settled down on his brunette head in an odd way, the rim bending the shell of one of his large ears down at a peculiar angle and making him look like a German shepherd puppy. The comparison between the two wasn't helped any by the fact that he was now staring up at Ed with a pair of bright brown eyes._

_The blonde mentally swatted the image away and frowned down at the boy. "Yeah, Thomas?"_

"_We gonna . . . y'know?" the boy questioned, wringing the handle of his ladle-weapon nervously. "Attack or something?"_

_Edward regarded the kid for a few short seconds, before slowly turning his attention to the rest of the squad. They were all nodding at him, as if silently asking the same question that Thomas just had. The alchemist sighed._

_Before the game had gotten underway, the kids had explained to the two confused Elric brothers that the point of this little exhibition was to obtain a flag that the enemy had set up at their base. So, all Ed had to do was get the flag away from Al—who would most likely be camped out next to the base, doing his damndest to look big and intimidating to the opposing troops—and this ridiculous thing would be over._

_He knew that said brother and flag were now positioned somewhere near the back of the house._

"_Now," Ed mumbled to himself. "How to go about_ getting _to them."_

_Thomas blinked, tilting his head to one side—further adding to Edward's belief that he had been a dog in a past life—and quietly asked, "What?"_

_Ignoring the question, the blonde closed his eyes briefly and began to wrack his brains for some way he could distract Al long enough to get around him and get the flag away—he might have been a suit of armour, but the younger Elric was quick, both mentally _and _physically. It wasn't easy to pull the wool over his eyes._

_Ed just needed a distraction._

_A distraction._

_His golden eyes flashed open . . . and he grinned. "Hey guys . . . have you ever heard of a little thing called 'cannon fodder'?"_

* * *

"_I can't believe you sent those little kids out there like that," Alphonse Elric scolded. _

_Ed, who had been walking along with his hands shoved down into his coat pockets, staring up into to dark night sky, glanced back over his shoulder at the suit of armour. "Huh?" he mumbled. "What're you talking about?"_

_It was near midnight and the brothers had just arrived back in Central; they had been heading for the dorms, when the younger brother brought up the point he had been brooding over for the past half-hour._

"_Those kids, Brother," Al repeated, sounding annoyed. "This morning, back in Dublith. You sent them running at the others like sheep to try and distract me, didn't you?"_

_Once he realized what his younger brother was going on about, Ed grinned up at him and stated, "Yeah, I did. I wish I could have seen the look on your face when they rounded the corner like that, screaming and waving their spatulas and ladles and stuff." The blonde allowed himself a little chuckle at the thought, running a gloved finger under his nose to relieve a tickle._

"_That wasn't very nice, Ed," the younger chided, his clanking footsteps echoing off of the buildings along the quiet street. "You wouldn't make a very good commanding officer, seeing how willingly you would sacrifice your troops."_

_The Fullmetal shrugged one shoulder, turning back to face the direction he was headed. "It was just a game. Besides . . . I got the flag, didn't I?" he asked nonchalantly._

"_Barely."_

_Edward harrumphed indignantly. Though it was true that he had ordered the children to charge in and attack Al's base as a distraction, his brother had apparently seen through the subterfuge. When Ed had come up from behind—having circled the house from the other side—his brother had been ready for him and had simply _lifted _him off the ground by one leg._

_Of course, Edward Elric was_ not _one to be lifted._

_He had clapped his hands together and reached up to touch the gauntlet that now had his automail leg in its grasp; Al had, predictably, let out a startled yelp and had dropped his older brother. The teen had fallen to the ground in a crumpled, blonde heap, then had flipped over and scuttled like a maritime crab past his brother's legs._

_Alphonse had barely managed to shout something about how they had promised not to use alchemy and how it wasn't fair, before Ed yelled out over his shoulder, "All's fair in love and war!_ Get him!_"_

_At that command, the five remaining children of his squad had stopped whatever personal battles they had gotten involved in and rushed forward to commence in beating Al's armoured legs with their assorted kitchen-weaponry. It had given Edward just enough time to get back to the enemy fort and capture the flag. His troops had cheered as he had waved the little red square of cloth over his head triumphantly . . . and he had to admit that he kind of enjoyed it._

_He would never admit that to Al, though._

_Back in the present, the blonde alchemist scoffed. "I _still _got it."_

_The suit of armour rolled his red eyes at his brother's childish behavior, vaguely wondering why he or Izumi had ever allowed the teen—with his aggressive methods well-known throughout Amestris—to play a battle-game with children. Alphonse feared that some of them might have picked up some of his brother's more_ unsavory _actions, as well as some of his colourful vocabulary. This probably would have gotten their Teacher into trouble with the kids' parents, which undoubtedly meant trouble for the Elrics as well._

_Al sighed hollowly and went to tell his older brother something of the matter; however, all thought and motion suddenly stopped when the boy's eye caught something off to his left._

Movement.

_It was just for a brief moment, but it was enough to fully draw the Elric's attention. Noticing that the familiar clanking of metal feet had suddenly ceased, Ed halted in his own progress to see what had caused his brother pause. "Al? What is it?"_

_Alphonse stared at the alley for several seconds, straining his eyes in an attempt to once again catch the motion of shadows against shadows; however, after nearly ten seconds of silence, the armour turned to face Edward, reaching up to absently rub the back of his helmet. "Eh . . . I just thought that I saw something."_

"_Really?" The blonde blinked his golden eyes several times and looked over at the alleyway that the younger alchemist had indicated. "What was it?"_

"_I'm . . . not sure," Al squeaked. "But, it's gone now."_

_Ed snorted and spun around, starting up his path to HQ once again. "Probably just a stray cat or something, Al. Come on . . . let's get back to the dorms before it gets __too__ late."_

"_O-okay," Al muttered distractedly, watching the darkness within the alley for a few more hesitant seconds, before turning away and following after his brother. "Ed?" Alphonse questioned once he had caught up to his brother's short, but quick gate._

"_Hm?"_

"_Tell me again why we didn't just stay at Teacher's house tonight and catch the train tomorrow, like we were supposed to?" The younger boy's echoing voice sounded annoyed and accusing. The truth was, the brothers Elric had been scheduled to arrive back in Central the following day—they had completed their mission early and, being in the south, had dropped by their teacher's place on the way back. Alphonse had been under the impression that they would be staying until the following morning, but Edward had insisted that they leave that night, so that they could get back to HQ early. "I thought that you liked putting off your meetings with Colonel Mustang until the very last minute?"_

_Edward threw an annoyed glare over his shoulder at the suggestive tone Al had taken and expelled a harsh snort of disdain at the mention of his superior's name. Alphonse, had he a mouth and the ability to smirk, would have been doing so right then._

_The blonde seemed to sense the mirth radiating off of his brother nonetheless and turned away before he got too upset over nothing. "_Because_, Al," he answered patiently. "If we waited until morning to catch the train, then I'd have to go see that bastard as soon as I arrived. This way, I can shower, get some rest and food, and—"_

"_Finish up your report?" the younger asked teasingly._

_Ed grumbled, but said nothing to refute Al's accusation as the two of them rounded the corner and arrived at the entrance to Central HQ. The blonde sighed wearily, so happy that they had finally made it to the dorms—hot shower, warm food, comfortable bed, _hell yeah!—_that he chose to forget the fact that Al had, once again, just beaten him in another argument._

_He was getting annoyingly good at that._

"_Come on, Al," he called over his shoulder and began to ascend the front stairs into the building, his stomach growling impatiently at the prospect of a meal._

_He thought that he heard Al start to make a reply . . . but suddenly, out of nowhere, the wind picked up and came billowing down past the two teens; the close proximity of the buildings and narrow streets put even more pressure on the warm wind, compressing it into near cyclone-force proportions. Windows rattled their alarm at the assault, newspapers went cartwheeling down the deserted street, and somewhere, a single wind chime sang its merry song._

_Edward stooped over and pulled his coat tight against him, back against the sudden onslaught. He winced as his own braid caught him hard in the face, slapping him like a betrayed lover; however, just as quickly as it had begun, the wind died down. Edward straightened his stance. "Whoa," he proclaimed with a laugh. "What was that about?" Grinning lopsidedly, the blonde turned to see how his mountain of a brother had faired against the wind. "Hey, Al, you oka—"_

_Ed stopped._

"_Alphonse?" asked the Fullmetal, his brow quickly furrowing. It appeared as though the brutal assault of wind had felled the suit of armour near the base of the steps. Al wasn't getting up . . . and he wasn't moving._

"_Al?" he called out again. "Come on, Al. This isn't funny." Ed heard the tremor in his voice and swallowed hard before slowly, cautiously beginning to make his way back down the stairs._

_Each step underfoot—_

One.

—_each ragged breath he took in—_

Two.

—_each foot that he got closer to his fallen brother—_

Three.

—_Edward felt his heart beat faster—_

Four.

—_felt his panic quickly rise—_

Five.

—_and his gut churn painfully in his abdomen—_

Six.

—_because his brother was lying there—_

Seven.

—_facedown on the cold concrete sidewalk—_

Eight.

—_and Ed was screaming Al's name at the top of his lungs—_

Nine.

—_because it took thirteen seconds—_

Ten.

—_for the light to hit the armour just right—_

Eleven.

—_and for Ed to see the huge hole—_

Twelve.

—_that cut right through to where his blood seal was . . ._

Thirteen.

"_Al . . . Al? Al!_ AL!_"_

* * *

Edward Elric, Fullmetal Alchemist, stared down with gritty determination in his eyes and a sharp ache in his heart at the soulless casing that had once held his brother. The pile of armour now sat motionless in the centre of the perfect circle, beckoning him, begging him to help . . .

"Al . . ." he whispered into the darkness, silent tears making their way down his pale cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

This would work. It had to. He didn't care what he gave up. Even if he got caught, kicked out of the military, and thrown in prison . . . it would be worth it. Because, as far as Edward was concerned, a world without Al in it wasn't one worth living in.

He would succeed in this . . . or die failing. Kneeling down next to the circle, Edward shut his eyes and steeled himself . . .

Then pressed his hands against the array.

* * *

**Yes, I killed Al. I know—I suck. Please review and tell me just how **_**much**_** I suck, if y'all don't mind. Next chapter will be out I-don't-know-when.**


	2. That which is Forsaken

**All right. People aren't hurling bricks at me, so I've decided that it's safe to continue. I thank you for not dismembering me. (smiles) **

**Oh, and this chapter is dedicated to my real life friend ****Sirius' PuppyPadfoot****. Without her "continual pestering" (as NeoDiji once put it), this chapter probably wouldn't have gotten done as quickly as it has. So be sure to thank her in your review if you like the chapter . . . and blame her if you don't. (laughs)**

**Oh, and apparently some of you think that Ed is going to get pregnant with Al. Well, let's just wait until Ch. 4 to see if you still think that . . . (grins)**

**Disclaimer: I own the right to bear arms. Try to sue me for saying I own FMA and I will be forced to put a bullet between your eyes. (smiles sweetly) **

* * *

"_He who has conquered doubt and fear has conquered failure."_

-James Lane Allen

* * *

**Chapter II: . . . That which is Forsaken . . .**

Colonel Roy Mustang downed the last bit of his bourbon, clamping his onyx eyes shut as the liquid scorched a trail down his throat and into his stomach. Sliding his empty glass and tab across the bar, he stood and shrugged on his black trench, nodded a goodbye to the bartender, and then left the dusky tavern.

Turning up his collar to the summer night breeze, Roy surveyed the silent street around him, before squaring his shoulders and beginning his journey home.

The heels of his military-issued boots clicked ominously on the worn cobblestone of the old street, the sound echoing back off the sleeping buildings. The air was thick, turbulent, and full of charge that signaled an approaching storm, and the dark-haired alchemist suddenly regretted sending his driver away. He didn't even have an umbrella handy.

Navigating the secluded backstreets of Central, Roy kept his eyes and ears sharp for anything that might be construed as an attack on him—despite being off-duty for the day, he had gone straight from work to his favourite dive and was still wearing his very distinctive attire.

Roy Mustang's military uniform was, in essence, a double-edged sword. On one hand, it let everyone who looked at him know that he was a colonel of the Amestris militia and was not one to be trifled with; therefore, it undoubtedly also drew the eyes of the more unsavoury residents of Central. The colonel may have put back a drink or two that night, but he wasn't drunk.

And he wasn't stupid.

He knew better than to get caught off-guard in the isolated, seedy back-sections of the city and held his pyrotex-gloved fingers at the ready in his coat pocket. Just _let_ some malefactor hyped up on booze, drugs, and God-knows-what-else try to take a swing at him because he was an officer—they would be flambé before they hit the dirt. Right now, Roy was not in the mood to play.

Right _now_, Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, was _not_ a man with whom to _fuck_.

_Because Alphonse Elric was dead. _

Roy's frown deepened and his brow furrowed; he slowly let his gaze drop to the ground before him as he walked. The colonel wasn't sure in any certain terms if that was the word that one would use, but for all intents and purposes, it was an effective definition:

The boy's blood seal—the thing that had secured his soul to the hollow suit of armour—had been punctured from behind by an unseen perpetrator and his spirit had been wretched away from the armour that had housed it for over four years, cast carelessly into the cruel winds of Fate.

_Killed._

No. The Flame had to remind himself that _no_, Alphonse Elric had not simply been killed. He had been _murdered_. His fragile life had been snuffed out before he could even _hope_ to experience life in his renewed flesh and bone body—to once again feel the wind on his face or the grass beneath his feet or the sensation of another human's skin or kitten's fur beneath his fingertips; to at last partake in the exquisite Central cuisine or experience the forgotten flavour of his favourite toothpaste . . . or even the refreshing taste of pure water as it passed over his lips for the first time in years; to suffer through the acrid stench that Havoc left in his wake, even if he didn't have a lit cigarette with him, or to smell the aroma of freshly-baked bread at open market or understand the subtle difference between Resembool and Central air. To be normal.

To live.

And, if Roy were to suppose that—with or without a body of blood, flesh, bone, skin, and hair—one could _live_ then he had to simultaneously believe that one could die. There was not one without the other. Alpha and Omega; yin and yang; balance; duality . . .

Equivalency.

So yes. Dead _was_ the word that one would use to describe the younger Elric's sudden and violent removal from the world. Though, it hardly seemed fair—hardly seemed _equivalent_—to those he had left behind. His friends, comrades, family.

Goddamit, Edward had been . . . wild. Distraught.

_Edward._

_God, his eyes . . ._

Roy turned a corner, unexpectedly arriving at a wider and more brightly-lit street. Off to his left, there were cozy housing complexes, each built claustrophobically close the next, creating an unbroken, almost cyclopean wall of stone, wood, and shrubbery; to his right lay a sweeping expanse of grass, the lawn broken only by the dozens of smooth stone markers jutting forth, stretching upwards towards the sky.

The man relinquished a wispy breath into the dark night.

There are eyes that no man on earth should ever have to look upon—eyes that hide deep down in the darkened corners of the human soul and only come tearing out when you are least prepared to confront them . . .

_That night, Roy Mustang was sitting at his desk, trying uselessly to fend off sleep at the late hour and complete the few documents that still littered his desk. His first lieutenant had just departed, heading home for the night and leaving him to finish up his work for the day; Roy was considering simply setting the papers ablaze and making a break for it, when a sudden commotion out in the hall drew his attention._

. . . They rip nerve endings away, shred skin and meat from bones and liquefy marrow . . .

_He didn't remember standing. Or crossing the room. All he knew was that he was at the door and Hawkeye was shoving a struggling Edward Elric into his arms, explaining over the shouts of protest and "_Alphonse!_" that the younger Elric was . . ._

_Dead._

. . . Bore into your spirit and send you screaming into the abyss . . .

_She told him to hold fast to the teenager—that he didn't need to see his fallen baby brother—and that she would roust the others of the unit to help her bring the . . . _body_ . . . into the building, out of sight. Despite the utter chaos of the situation—despite the heart-wrenching pleas and sobs from the boy in his arms—Hawkeye was calm. She was helping. Acting. _

_And she looked absolutely terrified._

. . . simply praying for an end to it all . . .

_Ed screamed his brother's name over and over again as the woman fled; he tried to wretch himself away from his superior, who held him fast against his chest. The blonde cried and writhed and kicked and even attempted to bite the Flame on the arm. Then, he whipped his head around to look at the older man . . . and Roy forgot how to breathe._

There are eyes that no man on earth should _ever_ have to look upon—and the night that Alphonse died Roy was forced to see them. He was forced to witness light, hope, dreams, love, faith, and humanity itself split down the middle and shatter in the golden depths of Edward Elric's eyes.

The colonel shook his head and reached up to grind the heel of his hand against one of his eyes, as if to wipe away the image that now seemed to coat the back of his eyelids—to rid himself of the memory of what he had seen reflected in those amber orbs.

_A failure._

Roy halted in his progress, removing one hand from its pocket and leisurely setting it on the short, wrought-iron fencepost to his right.

He had failed them. Utterly and miserably and Ed's eyes had said it all. They had probed the depths of his own black pools, accusing and questioning and horrified and just plain _pissed_, and they asked why the hell he hadn't kept the promise he had been silently making to himself for the past four years:

_Why didn't you protect us?_

I . . . I didn't know . . . How could I have known?

_But you're Colonel Roy Mustang. Flame Alchemist. You know everything._

No. N-no, that's not true. There was nothing that I could have done to protect you and Al, because . . .

_Because what?_

Because I didn't know!

_No. You failed us._

No, Edward. No. No, that's . . . that's not true.

_Yes, it is._

No . . . I just . . .

_Failed. You failed. You completely failed us, you fuck!_

That was what Edward's eyes had said to him that night. And they were right. He was a failure. He had made a promise to himself to keep the two of them safe—to help them achieve their goal while he worked on his own. To protect them. And, though he tried to convince himself that there was no way that he could have known that Alphonse was going to be attacked, he still blamed himself for being able to do nothing.

For putting that look in the Fullmetal's eyes.

Roy sighed wearily, his bourbon-tinged breath escaping his lungs in a warm rush, and he lifted his own eyes to gaze around at where his feet had unconsciously taken him. He was not nearly as surprised as he should have been to find himself standing just outside the ornate entrance gate of Central's cemetery.

Letting his eyes gently slip shut, Roy turned around the gatepost and entered the vast necropolis. "Maybe I'll pay Hughes a visit while I'm here."

* * *

**Good? **_**Si**_**? **_**Non**_**? It was short, but I hope y'all liked it. Please review!**


	3. That which is to be Expected

**Have any of y'all seen or read **_**Brokeback Mountain**_**? (wails and slams head against desk) I just finished the book—a mere 55 pages long—and I feel like I've had my heart ripped out and trodden upon! I feel so empty inside . . . **

"**I wish I knew how to quit you." (wails again) God, why couldn't **_**I**_** have written that? (sniffles) It's good, sad, beautiful, and has hot, yaoi smut. Go read it, I command you!**

**Disclaimer: Perhaps I could form an army of corgis, we could take over Japan . . . and then, I'd own all of Japan. Ergo, I would own FMA. (nods) Yeah . . . **

* * *

"_You see the crumbling of reality and you accept it."_

-Marguerite Young

* * *

**Chapter III: . . . That which is to be Expected** **. . .**

"Hey, Maes," Roy muttered hollowly. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

The dark-haired man looked with a sad smile and a heavy heart upon the grave of his fallen comrade. The man, though a bit of an idiot and a picture-happy freak when it came to his family, had been the Flame's nearest and dearest friend since the time they were both young boys. They were like brothers.

Memories came then. They were a bit jostled by booze and weathered by the passage of time, like wind against stones in the desert, but Roy was assaulted by them nonetheless. He remembered—not without a whisper of embarrassed blush tingeing his pale cheeks—how he had ultimately met Maes Hughes, back when he was a mere nine years old.

The colonel blinked forcefully and bit down on the inside of his cheek, determined not to let the rampant emotions overrun him. This wasn't what he had come here for—not to reminisce on how the bespectacled boy had ended up saving his life, earning a place in his reserved heart. He had come here for counsel.

Maes had been his right-hand man since that faithful day so many years ago and had given him good advice throughout his life—why should Roy not go to him now that he was dead?

Shuffling his feet uncomfortably and shoving his hands down into his trench pockets, the colonel swallowed. "I know that I haven't . . . haven't been by to visit you lately. I've just . . . been busy, is all."

_Uh-huh. Right._

"It's true, Maes," Roy responded to the unspoken, accusatory remark, not at all startled by the fact that it was Hughes' voice. "I mean, the investigation into your murder . . . the entire team's transfer to Central Headquarters . . . the uprising in Lior . . ."

_Roy, I don't doubt that any of that is true. I just don't think that _those_ are the reasons that you haven't come to visit me . . ._

The colonel smiled ruefully and muttered, "You sure are perceptive for a dead man."

A long silence ensued, one punctuated only by the distant sound of a car horn and shouting voices, before Hughes—or, at least, the voice in Roy's head that he had labeled as Hughes—chose to speak again. _You've been drinking again._

The Flame frowned. Damn the man for always getting straight to the point—disembodied voice or no. With a noncommittal shrug of one of his shoulders, the dark-haired man sniffed and turned his head away, not quite willing to look directly at the headstone as he stated, "Something happened."

_I know . . ._

"Alphonse . . . he . . ."

_I know, Roy. I know . . . It's okay._

"No, it isn't. He died because of me."

_Because of . . .? What are you talking about?_

"I didn't protect him. I made a promise to myself to look after those boys and I failed. Just like Fullmetal said."

_He never said that. And they took an early train home. How could you have known?_

"But I _should_ have . . ."

_Roy, you blame yourself for everything that goes wrong around you. For anything bad that happens to anyone you know._

"I should have protected him."

_You can't keep blaming yourself. Not for those boys or anyone else._

"I should have protected _you_ . . ."

_Me included._

". . . Help me, Maes. Please . . . I'm so lost."

_You want my advice?_

"Yes. Tell me what I should do . . . Please."

_Go to him. He needs you now . . . Go and help him._

"What are you talking about, Maes?"

_. . . Edward . . ._

Roy's brow furrowed and he looked back at the stone marker curiously, momentarily distracted from the staring contest he had initiated with the large rhododendron bush a few yards to his right. "Wha—?"

His words were abruptly cut off as the otherworldly, yet hauntingly familiar blue light exploded somewhere in the distance to his left; he brought his arm up to shield his squinted eyes on instinct—something built into him from his days as a major in Ishbal—and waited briefly for the sound of a charge detonating . . .

Prayed for it, even.

Because deep down, he knew. Past the fear and the doubt and the self-hatred, he knew that the cacophony of fire and accelerant and crumbling fragments of buildings and the screaming, quickly expanding outwards and engulfing anything and everything in its path—it was something that was distantly memorable when he was conscious but that haunted his dreams like a spectre . . .

Deep down, he knew that it would never come.

Because he remembered that light from five years previous. He remembered the chilly rain against his back and he remembered the flash of alchemic blue light that had lit up every window of the tiny, country home. He remembered looking down on the barely conscious form of a small, blonde boy—sweating, trembling with fever and pain, his arm and leg missing, the stumps still weeping blood—and he remembered being humbled.

He knew that blue light all too well.

And now, he was terrified.

Daring himself to look, Roy cautiously peaked over the top of his arm. He blinked, his fully-dilated pupils readjusting to the gloom as his brain came to the realization that the light that had assaulted him without warning only seconds ago—

_(Seconds? Was that how long it was? I could have been standing here for minutes . . . hours.)_

—was now gone. The colonel was left once again standing alone in a dark cemetery, talking to a dead man whose voice seemed to reside in his head . . .

Dropping his arm to his side, his heart rapping painfully against his sternum, Roy took a steadying breath and asked aloud, "What the hell was that?"

Hughes, apparently unfazed by what had just transpired, answered in his usual calm voice, _I thought that you knew? _Colonel Mustang, however, wasn't listening to the chiding voice of his best friend. He was looking in the direction that the light had come from:

The cemetery lot-keeper's maintenance shed—the place where the hulking armour that had once housed Al's soul had been stored. It had taken quite a bit of bribery and threatening on his small unit's part, but they had finally convinced the groundskeeper to put it there until it could be quickly, quietly buried within the cemetery.

Though Edward, understandably, had been vehemently against it and had taken no part in the preparations, the unit (the only ones who knew of the younger Elric's death) had unanimously agreed that, despite it only being a pile of useless metal now, the suit had been the only Alphonse that any of them had known.

So simply throwing it away was out of the question.

Hawkeye had, in her usual manner, suggested that, if they were going to bury the suit in lieu of a body, then it should be sent back to Resembool, so that Edward could bury it next to their mother's grave. Roy, though admittedly moved by Hawkeye's reserved sentiment regarding the boys and the situation, had squelched that idea.

Alphonse's armour was almost as well-known as Edward was—in some places, even more so. How was it going to look if a contingent of soldiers was seen carrying the disassembled suit back to the boy's hometown? How could they ask to bury a suit of armour, when everyone would want to be able to see the rosy-cheeked boy one last time?

No. They couldn't do that. So they had opted for this; a quiet, almost non-existent service late in the evening in Central's main cemetery. To mark his existence.

With or without his brother there.

Though now, as Roy watched a red-cloaked figure come stumbling out of the shed, hunched over and clutching his abdomen in apparent pain, the colonel knew just _why_ Edward had decided not to get involved in Alphonse's funeral.

_He wasn't planning on him staying dead._

"My God, Fullmetal," Roy whispered into the damp air. "What have you done?"

His feet moved of their own accord. One unsteady foot in front of the other, hurriedly coaxing his legs back into motion—step, step, step, step . . . and then he was running. Galloping headlong towards the distant spot of crimson on the horizon and to a fate that he wasn't sure of.

He was running.

Maes Hughes smiled then. Sadly, almost ruefully, and stated in his most quiet voice, _It isn't too late just yet, Roy. It isn't too late. _

* * *

**Heh. I thought that they would meet up this chapter, but . . . I cut it short. (shrugs) They'll meet next chapter, I promise. (smiles)**


	4. And that which is Lost

**(bows) I am **_**so**_** sorry! Forgive me for taking so long to update! I am a lazy **_**ass**_** and I deserve to be flogged. I pray that this long chapter will make up for my discrepancies.**

**Now that the groveling is out of the way . . . a couple of reviewers asked me what the title of the story meant—it was only then that I realized . . . I hadn't told y'all! (laughs at herself) Well, let me explain:**

**There's this song that I liked and that I thought went just beautifully with the idea of the story; however, I didn't want to put the title of the song as the title, because A) people might mistake it as a songfic and B) that just seems cheesy in my mind. So, I translated the title into Latin.**

'_**Levitas Fragosus**_**' means 'Lightning Crashes'. That's the explanation. (smiles) **

**The song is by Live and I suggest y'all give it a listen. It probably won't give you any special insight into the plot of the story (only Nana, Sirius' PuppyPadfoot, and I know how everything will eventually turn out), but it's a good song.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. That would make me Hiromu Arakawa. She (according to my lovely reviewer ****Yumiko Yoshihana****) hates RoyEd. I love it. Ergo, I am not Hiromu Arakawa and don't own FMA. Tada! **

* * *

"_Man's Reason is in such deep insolvency to sense, that tho' she guide his highest flight heav'nward, and teach him dignity, morals, manners, and human comfort, she can delicately and dangerously bedizen the rioting joys that fringe the sad pathways of Hell."_

_-_Robert Bridges

* * *

**Chapter IV: . . . And that which is Lost**

_There is a moment in every person's life. _

_A moment where reality comes to a screeching, stumbling halt and who that person was before becomes ethereal and fades away into the realm of forgotten. A moment that is both feared and strived for, both hated and loved. It was a moment that Edward Elric thought he had experienced before. _

_In his sixteen short years, he was sure that he would have gotten used to the feeling of being humbled. Of being down on his knees, begging. Beseeching. Of feeling pain._

_Of _fear_._

_But as he kneeled before the Gate—the same Gate that had rent his limbs and still haunted his waking dreams—and pleaded for it to give his brother's soul back . . . Ed understood yet again._

_("_I want my brother back. Please. I'd give anything! Anything! Just give me Al back!"_)_

_There is a moment in every person's life. And as black, tendril-like hands reached towards him from the abyss caged between two doors, caressing, ensnaring, wanting—Edward had that moment once again._

_The moment that he realized that he was only human._

_He had learned that when he and Al had tried to resurrect their mother, and again when he had faced both Barry the Butcher and Scar. He had learned that on the rainy night he first saw the silhouette of Nina Tucker burned onto the side of a building in a dark alleyway. And he was relearning it now. Hands fell upon him and he trembled under the weight of Darkness. He hurt . . . and was afraid. _

_Edward Elric was only human._

_And he screamed. _

* * *

Roy Mustang was currently experiencing a very similar moment.

The Flame Alchemist stumbled over yet another grave marker that had been carefully concealed within the damp grass, but quickly regained his balance before gravity got the better of him. He should slow down—should lessen his frantic pace before he fell and broke his neck, because that wouldn't do anyone any good, especially him—but he couldn't bring himself to do so.

He ran like the devil himself was at his heels, his breaths becoming shorter, quicker, and more staccato with each step, his eyes refusing to leave the red-clad figure as it ran blindly out into the dark cemetery and toppled headlong over a gravestone. Under any other circumstances, the situation might have been amusing; however, as Roy's knees hit the ground next to his subordinate and he saw the blonde's face contort as he wailed and twisted in agony, the colonel couldn't find anything funny about it.

Truth be told, he was scared shitless.

Gripping the boy's flesh shoulder, Roy gave him a rough shove and more or less forced him to roll over onto his back; Ed, of course, did not like this one bit and screamed his discomfort to the starless sky, seemingly trying to tuck his knees under his chin in his efforts to ball up against the pain.

The dark-haired man growled in irritation—the boy was hurt, no doubt about that; however, Roy was left to only guess as to the extent of his injuries. The shirt and jacket that Ed appeared to be forever cloaked in were both black as pitch, making it very difficult for the colonel to tell if he was bleeding under all those layers. He needed to take a look at the teen's stomach to assess the damage to the area.

Now, Roy wasn't a doctor by any means. The extent of his playing nurse had begun and ended on the fields of Ishbal—and then, that had merely been helping to hold down a fellow soldier while he screamed and writhed as his broken legs were set. At the very most, his alchemic talents had been used to cauterize major wounds, usually brought about by enemy explosives or simply Kimblee having too much careless fun.

However, if Ed was as seriously injured as Roy thought, then the Flame could at least stem the hemorrhaging—cauterize the wound, if need be—and then get him to a hospital where a real doctor could look at him. Edward, however, with all of his squirming, was not making it easy for Roy to help him.

Eventually, through much clawing, pushing, pulling and maybe a bit of shouting, the colonel somehow managed to fend off Edward's hands long enough to pull his shirt up and reveal . . .

Nothing.

There was no welt. No bruising. No burn, alchemic or otherwise. No cuts or lacerations. No wound of any kind. Nothing but smooth, tanned, unbroken skin, dimpled here and there to form abs that a sixteen-year-old shouldn't possess and sinking away into a dark belly-button just above the waistline of his pants. No mark, whatsoever.

Roy released the struggling ball of muscle and automail—which promptly rolled back onto its side and hunched over, its breathing deep, erratic, ragged, and laced with pain—and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Fullmetal," the colonel stated loudly, trying to make himself heard over the blonde's muted cries; his own voice was raw and gritty and trembling so badly he wasn't sure if it even belonged to him. "Fullme—Edward! _Edward!_" he shouted, finally resorting to calling the boy by his actual name when nothing else worked.

_That_ seemed to do the trick.

The blonde stilled and let out a shuddering breath; golden eyes—dark, hazy, and unfocused—cracked open a sliver through the pain and swiveled up to rest on the older man's face. "Al?" the boy wheezed. ". . . Alphonse?"

The colonel's breath hitched painfully in his throat, his dark eyes widening to an uncomfortable circumference. "No, Fullmetal," he whispered harshly. "It's Roy Mustang."

"Mm . . . Mustang?" Ed squinted up at him, recognition suddenly invading his clouded orbs. Clamping his eyes shut once again, Edward groaned and rolled over onto his knees, grinding his forehead against the damp grass and pressing himself as deeply against his own legs as his body could manage. "What're you doing here, Mustang?" he rasped out through clenched teeth. "Where . . . where's Al?"

Roy let his brow furrow as he settled back on his heels, taking several deep, steadying breaths and several _long_ seconds to process a calm, rational response to this question. But, for the life of him, he couldn't help thinking back to the blue light he had seen only minutes before . . . and that made him _seethe_. And so, he also couldn't help the harsh response that flowed out of his mouth:

"Alphonse is _dead_, Fullmetal. You know that."

Edward visibly cringed at the words and then appeared to shrink, as if he were attempting to tighten even further into his fetal ball of misery. "But . . . I thought that—" His words were abruptly cut off as another spasm of pain racked his small body; he gasped and wrapped his arms firmly around his midsection once again, shuddering and choking and sobbing . . . and Roy felt the knot of anger in his chest loosen considerably.

"What?" he whispered once the teen's tremors had ceased. "What did you think?"

"I just . . . I just thought that," Edward wept out, his voice echoing around the cool, dark cemetery lot. "I thought that if I gave enough . . ." The blonde let his voice trail off as his body was slammed with yet another convulsion, but Roy caught the meaning behind the words.

_I thought that if I gave enough . . ._

_. . . gave enough . . ._

Equivalency.

The colonel had Ed's shoulders in his hands and he was smashing the quivering boy up against the nearest headstone before he could stop himself. "What happened?" he yelled into the Elric's face.

Edward's whole body contorted for a few short moments—his legs locking up against his chest and his hands fisting the grass beneath his gloved palms—before the pain finally receded and he lifted his head the slightest degree. It was enough for Roy to glimpse the intensity burning in the slivers of gold irises that he saw.

The teen lowered his head again, flaxen bangs curtaining before his face and shielding his eyes them from further viewing. He then growled out, "What the hell do you think?"

Roy Mustang felt his breath leave him is a gust then, gut-punched not only by the sheer animosity that the Fullmetal managed to put behind the words, but by the words themselves.

Giving Edward's flesh shoulder as painful a squeeze as he could manage, he leaned in and hissed into the blonde's ear, "You wait right here. Don't you _move_."

Then, leaning away and pushing himself into a standing position, Roy began slowly making his way towards the shed that Edward had just stumbled out of.

The one containing the suit of armour that had once been Alphonse Elric.

* * *

_The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want._

The door was ajar, Edward having not bothered to close it again as he fled, and ethereal wisps of powder grey smoke were curling out over the doorstop and slithering through the blades of grass. The jabs seemed darkened, maybe due to an alchemic burn. Roy wasn't sure.

_He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake._

The colonel swallowed thickly and ran his clammy, gloved hands slowly up and down the sides of his trench coat, trying unsuccessfully to rid himself of the sweat on his palms; his mouth was dry, his ears were buzzing, and his whole body was trembling uncontrollably, his teeth chattering together as though he were freezing.

_Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._

He didn't know what he should expect. But, at the same time, he expected the worst. Because it was Edward. And bad things followed Edward.

_Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord . . ._

Roy's fingers silently found the edge of the door and he grasped it firmly, feeling the rough texture of the beaten wood even through his gloves. He closed his eyes then, taking a deep breath—the whiff of ozone that always lingered over the site of an alchemic reaction stinging his nostrils and sinus cavities—and pulled open the door.

_. . . forever. _

* * *

The residual alchemic charge in the air of the small space was so overwhelmingly intense that Roy swore he could feel his hair trying to stand on end; his whole body tingled and itched in a familiar way—almost as if a layer of radioactive ash was settling on his skin—and he resisted the urge to reach up and scratch his arms. Misty smoke hung heavy in the room, making it hard to discern anything; it swirled past his ankles, making its escape through the opened door behind him, and Roy was, for once, thankful for the heavy military-issued boots he wore.

He didn't want the stuff touching him.

His heels sounded heavy and slow on the concrete floor as he made his way deeper into the dark interior of the cramped shed. The Flame squinted around, his eyes adjusting, but still unable to make out anything definite through the vapor and murk. There were forms—varying in size, shape, and distance away from him—starting to appear, the meager light filtering in from outside through the wide-open entryway helping Roy to see.

There looked to be built-in cabinets on the left wall, floor to ceiling and painted the same blue-grey as the rest of the room; what looked like three or four push mowers lined up against the back wall; there were containers—boxes and tubs, buckets and baskets—stacked in various places. And . . .

There.

_What is that?_

The mist was clearing more quickly now and a hulking form was appearing in the centre of the room. Sparse light played off of the contoured edges of a cuneus breastplate and rounded epaulieres, the sharp points of protruding spikes glinting almost menacingly.

Roy Mustang had to bite down on his tongue to be sure he wasn't dreaming.

Alphonse Elric's reattached armour lay in the middle of the room, the chalk lines of a deadly-looking alchemic array spreading outwards from his body like a mold, his empty eye sockets staring up at the ceiling.

Cold, unmoving, unresponsive . . .

Lifeless.

Roy tasted blood.

The colonel approached with caution, his steps slow, deliberate, and heavy—a subconscious warning to whatever lay before him that he was coming, built into him from back when he was a small child playing in the thick-grassed fields near his country home. Where poisonous snakes and other dangerous creatures ran rampant, his father had always taught him to let them know that he was coming; alert them to his presence before he accidentally snuck up on them.

Sound advice for a bare-footed boy.

And Roy had inadvertently carried it with him for the rest of his days; he never thought that it would be something that he would have to remember, but now—as he made his way towards the viper of chalk and alchemic pomp, hissing its displease and coiling tighter around the inanimate cataphract—for some reason, he was glad that he did.

He squatted down at the edge of the array, one hand on the ground between his legs for balance, and leaned forward to examine the design that Edward had made. He knew better than to touch the thing—he might not have been as well-versed on the subject of arrays and transmutations as the Elrics were . . . but he was an alchemist. One who had done his fair share of research on body alchemy.

And putting his hands to an "active" human transmutation circle didn't seem like a very bright idea. However, he leaned as close as he dared—close enough to where he could smell the dampness, mold, and chalk dust aromas rising off of the concrete floor—in silent awe. In reverence.

Intricate and beautiful in the ways of a speeding bullet, the lines of the circle came together. Its angles and curves seemed to dance as Roy breathed, glistening like Pentelic marble in the sparse moonlight that shone through the clouds.

Edward Elric was an alchemic genius.

"You tried it again," he whispered to himself. "I can't believe that you _actually_ tried it again, you crazy, stupid, _selfish_ sonofabitch."

An alchemic genius . . . and a suicidal fool. The dichotomy of it all made Roy's head spin.

When the Flame had seen the flash of blue light and had watched Ed run from the shed, holding his stomach like it was going to slip through his fingers if he wasn't careful, his mind had immediately gone to the worst. He had silently hoped—prayed—as he ran to the blonde's aid, that he was mistaken. That it was just some simple alchemy experiment gone wrong; that Edward wasn't as idiotic as he had just proven himself to be.

"Did you . . . did you not lose enough the first time? You felt the need to do it again? Why would you . . . Why would you put yourself in danger like that?"

Roy shoved himself up and away from the circle, spinning away as the rage built up inside of him. It clawed and snapped at the inside of his chest and burned his innards, seeping out through his pores and snarling viciously at the open air.

"Edward Elric, I swear when I get my hands on you . . ."

_What will you do? _a voice very akin to his own cooed almost condescendingly inside his head. _Hit him? He's been beaten so much throughout his short life that I doubt he would feel it anymore._

Roy slowed, his balled fists slackening.

_Will you threaten him with a court martial? Or simply yell at him? Scream about the fouls of Human Transmutation—of how it's illegal and can never be right, because what one has to give up can never equal what was lost?_

The demon attempting to claw its way through his sternum quieted and went still, as if it, too, was harkening the words. He approached the door, hand outstretched.

_And what kind of a fucking hypocrite are you, Roy Mustang, to berate him for wanting to atone for his sins? For wanting to bring someone back?_

The colonel stopped, his palm resting on the doorjamb.

"It isn't the same. I didn't . . . I didn't go through with it." There was a pressure building behind his eyes—pressing and probing—and Roy let his lids slip shut, hoping to stem the force.

_That's right. You didn't. But you would have. You would have if someone who loved you more than you could ever hate yourself hadn't intervened and slapped some sense into you. Someone was there for you._

"Hughes . . ." he whispered, his grip tightening on the burned doorframe.

_Someone was there to stop you. And that was something that Edward didn't have. He did Human Transmutation again . . ._

The dark-haired man worked his jaw silently, not trusting himself to respond to the voice just yet.

_So where's Alphonse?_

Roy opened his eyes.

"It didn't work." The words left him without him meaning to, but simply hearing them spoken—even from his own lips—was enough to make that realization tangible to the Flame . . . and he collapsed heavily against the jamb as relief washed over his senses in numbing waves. "It didn't work," he repeated hoarsely. "It didn't work."

_No. He failed._

Roy took a deep, long breath, forcing the cool night air down to the very depths of his lungs, inflating them until they ached, and then released it all—all the anger, guilt, sorrow; everything—in a wet rush of carbon dioxide and adrenaline. Resting his face against the wooden frame of the door, the colonel let his onyx eyes slip shut as he mused silently.

Edward was okay. He was alive. Granted, the fact that he had attempted a _second_ human transmutation in the unimaginable time span of five years was something that would be thoroughly touched upon whenever the two of them did talk about it; however, he was there. He was there and whole and, despite the pain he seemed to be in, he wasn't hurt as far as Roy could tell. He was all right. He was safe.

Alive.

And that was the part the Flame should be focusing on. There was no doubt in Roy's mind that they would discuss the Fullmetal's stupidity. Eventually. But for now . . .

For now . . .

_What about Edward?_

Roy let his eyes flutter open at this thought, peering around at the vast necropolis surrounding him. He couldn't possibly send the boy back to his room in the dorms. Alone. By himself, where he could listen to the silence and think. Think about what he had done wrong and about how he had failed his brother.

Who knew what he might do to himself if given that opportunity?

No.

Of all the things that Edward needed right now, being alone with his thoughts was not one of them.

* * *

Roy carefully placed the chipped, white mug on the coffee table before Edward, and then sat down next to the boy on the couch, his own mug of steaming tea clutched in his now ungloved hands.

Once Roy had made the decision to not leave Edward alone, there had been only one place that he could think of to take him. The colonel's state alchemist's position paid him well and his house was large enough to be blessed with a small number of spare rooms—Ed wouldn't be by himself to stew and, more importantly, he would be under the watchful eye of his superior officer.

The Flame spared the blonde seated next to him a flickering sideways glance, studying his lowered profile charily—Edward's painful tremors had ceased not long after they had left the cemetery and now, he showed no signs of ever having been in pain at all. Roy sighed quietly and brought his cup to his lips.

"Why?"

The question seemed spoken from the air and was so unexpected that Roy nearly choked on his tea in his surprise. Coughing a bit, he lowered his mug and turned to look at his guest. Dulled aureate orbs were peering out at him from behind flaxen fringe. The colonel swallowed hard before responding, attempting to level his voice.

"Why what?"

Ed turned to stare down into the dregs at the bottom of his steaming tea, his trembling hands tightening around the mug. "Why aren't you yelling?" he all but hissed out. "Aren't you gonna berate me about how stupid it was and how I should have known better? Why the hell are you being nice? Why the _hell_ aren't you being an _asshole_?"

The blonde fully looked at him then, his eyes dark pools of grieving amber; the skin of his forehead and around his mouth was pinched and tight, and he had dark, triangular hollows under both eyes. The teenager was showing signs of an age that the Flame Alchemist himself hadn't reached yet.

Roy fixed him with a blank stare—one practiced and improved upon over countless meetings with naïve soldiers and pompous, infantile officials—and sighed gently. "It _was_ stupid," he said slowly, "and you _should_ have known better. But if you want me to yell, then I'll do it later."

Edward's brow furrowed slightly at this; Roy closed his eyes and brought his tea up to his face, resting the tip of his nose against the mug lip. "Don't get me wrong—you attempted something that you knew could get you killed and you did so with no regard for your personal safety. I am so _pissed_ at you I can barely think straight. And I _will_ yell eventually, trust me on that. But, right now, that's not what you need." He brought the cup to his lips then, taking a long draw on his already cooling drink.

"Oh, so you know what I need now, do you?" the Fullmetal spat, his voice laced with the Edwardian hostility that Roy had grown accustomed to over the years. Setting his mug down on the table before them, he shifted on the couch to face the eldest Elric.

"As a matter of fact, Edward, I do," he stated calmly, lacing his fingers together in his lap and leaning forward slightly. "You need someone to talk to about this—calmly, rationally, _equally_. Someone who will speak to you as an adult and won't chastise you. Someone who won't treat you like a child." He paused to read Edward's features, noting that the lines of his face had become somewhat less drawn and that his eyes had softened—if only a little. "Now, it's my turn: Why?"

The blonde stared at his commanding officer for several seconds, before turning back to his tea. He chewed on the inside of his cheek contemplatively, while Roy waited patiently for a response. He wasn't disappointed.

". . . Why'd I do it?"

Not the answer he was looking for, but it was a start. He nodded once, knowing that Edward didn't have to be looking at him to catch the simple motion.

There was a laugh—harsh, cold, and raw with every emotion besides mirth—and the boy choked out, "Why do you _think_ I did it? I wanted to get Al back. What other choice did I have?"

The colonel had known that—it was a simple enough concept, after all. Edward was passionate about his loved ones in ways that made Roy's knees weak. He had given up a part of his own body to save his brother's soul—had had it ripped away while he was alive, awake, and _feeling_ it. Anyone who knew the Elric couldn't help marvel at his devotion to his family, even if they didn't know the whole story.

So, there was no doubt in Roy's mind as to _why_ the boy had done it. However . . .

"How were you planning on getting him back?" he probed carefully. "For human alchemy, you need the components that make up a human body, as you well know. From what I saw of your setup back in the graveyard, you had none of that—nothing of equivalent value to give." Edward tilted his head and gave Roy a strange, questioning look, but the dark-haired man waved him off evenly and continued, "How were you planning on getting him back, Ed?"

Edward stared at him a long while, his jaw working back and forth, his tongue clicking every so often. It wasn't like the blonde to be so quiet—he was normally verbose and animated to the point of being violent. His silence was unnerving Roy more than the man would care to admit.

After what seemed like an eternity, he lowered his eyes to a spot somewhere near the colonel's clavicle and said in a voice so low that the older man felt compelled to lean in so he could better hear it, ". . . I wasn't planning on getting his _body_ back."

Roy's brow furrowed. "What do you—?"

"I figured that . . . if I could give up enough, I could get his soul back. I could reattach it to the armour. It wouldn't matter if I lost another arm or leg . . . or even both—I've got the best automail mechanic in all of Amestris. What would another limb matter if I could get Al back?"

Roy let his mouth hang open silently, his eyebrows coming together in shock and concentration. "And once you got him back in the armour," he whispered, more to himself that to his subordinate, "you would simply resume your search for the philosopher's stone."

Edward nodded slowly. "Another automail appendage wouldn't matter once we got ahold of the stone. It would all be moot."

The Flame would never admit how much he truly admired the boy at that very moment.

He sucked silently on his bottom lip for a short time, taking in what the teenager sitting next to him had just admitted; sighing, Roy placed a comforting hand on his flesh shoulder. "Edward . . . I know that you miss your brother dearly; hell, we all do. You might think that you're going through this alone, but despite what you may think, I, and everyone under my command, felt the blow—"

The blonde shrugged off the man's hand and spat, "What the fuck do you know? You all just—"

"I'm _not_ saying that anyone felt it as hard as you did," Roy serenely interrupted, holding up his hand for silence. "Don't accuse me of that. All I'm saying is that . . . you're not by yourself in your pain."

Silence reined for a long time after this statement, its rule broken only by the harsh tick of the living room clock and the light pitter-patter of drizzle against the window panes. The two men gazed at one another, neither speaking, but both seeing the silent emotions betrayed in the other's eyes.

"Edward . . ." Roy began softly, turning his head slightly. "Did you ever stop to think that maybe Alphonse wouldn't want this? That maybe he wouldn't want his only brother going through that kind of pain for him . . . _again_?"

He knew that he was stepping into dangerous territory, but he had to play this card for Edward to truly know the gravity of the situation. The Fullmetal's expression grew dark and stormy as the night sky then, his golden orbs flickering with fire. "I don't know _what_ Al would want, now do I?" he growled through clenched teeth. "Because he's not here to tell me! And he never will be! I failed! I _failed_ him! _Again!_"

"Edward—"

"_Don't!_" he bellowed, slamming the mug he was still clutching down on the table with a clatter. "Don't you fucking tell me that you know how I feel, because you don't! Al was the centre of my universe. He was the reason that I got up in the morning; the reason that I took each and every breath. He was my _everything!_"

Ed paused and looked away, his bangs falling before his face, masking his expression; when he finally spoke again, his voice was low and gravelly, sharp and cold as his automail spear and Roy felt himself tremble in its wake:

"When you've lost your everything, your reason for living . . . then, maybe we can talk."

* * *

"_Hey, kid! What're you doing down there? Are you all right? . . . No offense, but you have to be pretty idiotic to fall down a well."_

"_I can't believe that your grandmother is teaching you alchemy! That's so unfair . . . My parents told me that there was no way I was gonna try alchemy. 'Too dangerous' they always tell me."_

"_So, you went out with Janet last night? How'd it go, you dog? . . . Oh. Y'know, maybe she was just nervous. Maybe you came on too strong? Try being more gentlemanly next time, okay? Girls like that."_

"_So . . . your dad's making you join the military? Heh. Looks like you're a true military brat, now Roy . . . Oh, a state alchemist? Yeah, that'll really rub it in his face . . . Maybe it won't be so bad."_

"_You know that I can't let you out of my sight for one second, otherwise you'll do something stupid . . . That's why I've decided to join up, as well . . . Face it Roy, without me, you're bound to do something idiotic and get yourself killed."_

"_To do that, you're gonna need someone who understands you and the system . . . and support you from the inside. I'll work under you, stay close to the higher-ups, and help push you to the top . . ."_

"_When you've lost your everything, your reason for living . . . then, maybe we can talk."_

"Mustang? Mustang!_ Roy!_"

The porcelain mug lay shattered and forgotten on the floor, the dark tea creeping along through the cracks in the hardwood and seeping into the white throw rug. Roy Mustang had his face in his hands and he was weeping. He was sobbing frantically and he had no idea why.

No. That wasn't true. He knew. Knew why he was crying. Because of his friend and companion and partner; for his memories and life and loss and death. He was weeping for Gracia and Elysia and all of the man's friends and loved ones. He was crying out in sheer sorrow and rage and agony . . . because he had failed him. He had lost him . . .

_His everything._

Roy Mustang was openly weeping for Maes Hughes . . . for Alphonse Elric . . . and for Edward.

_Edward._

The colonel risked a glance at Ed through his tearing eyes, and saw that the boy was on his knees next to him; he leaned heavily against Roy, his gloved hands bunched against the navy jacket, and the man could feel him trembling. His golden eyes were wide and wild, tears spilling down his paled cheeks.

_He looks . . . terrified._

"You can't . . . cry!" Ed choked out between sobs, his words broken by shuddering gasps. "You can't. Not now, please! Al was always the stronger one—the braver one. But, he's . . . You _can't_ cry, Mustang! _You have to be the strong one!_"

The dark-haired man slowly removed his hands and turned to gaze at Edward.

"The strong one?" he questioned hollowly, his tears still sliding silently down his face. "But, Edward, I . . . I was never the strong one. He was always . . . _always_ the stronger of the two of us. He took care of me. _He _was the strong one. Not me. Never me."

Roy leaned forward, gently resting his forehead against Edward's and their tears mingled and merged and spiraled downwards in a chaotic dance, spattering on the hardwood like the raindrops against the window. Ed hesitated, but then reached up and clutched at the front of the colonel's uniform, his fingers looping themselves into the lapels almost possessively as Roy's own arms wrapped themselves around the blonde's shoulders.

Neither of them remembered who initiated the kiss, but both would later claim—if only to themselves—that they hadn't meant to do it. No. Roy hadn't meant to kiss Edward that night.

And he hadn't meant to have sex with him.

He hadn't meant to. But it happened and he _let_ it happen. And they both cried and held each other and clawed and writhed and screamed their sorrow and passion and agony to the rafters. And the skies above opened up . . .

And heaven wept for two sinners.

* * *

**Aren't I evil? But, hey, I got it done. Sorry for the long wait, again. (sighs) Also, my friend Hikaru has made me some omg!fuckingadorable fanart for this chapter. I'll post the link to it on BMF's profile and you can reach it from there.**


	5. Unnatural Outcome

**I'm back. Sorry for the obscenely long wait between updates . . . again. (sighs) I just couldn't sit down and write . . .**

**Oh, yeah, thanks to Nana for the title of this chapter. **

**Disclaimer: FMA owns me—mind, body, heart, and soul. Does that count? **

* * *

"_Wonders are many in the world, and the wonder of all is man."_

-_Antigone _

* * *

**Chapter V: Unnatural Outcome**

The walls of the examination room were a warm buttermilk-cream, the rich colour complimented by the white trim and simple, off-white tiled flooring. There was a plain desk pushed up against the far wall, positioned directly under a small cabinet of the same make and drab, grey-green colour—several glass containers sat upon it in a neat row, displaying their collections of swabs, cotton balls, and multi-coloured lollipops proudly. Hanging on the walls were a few framed certificates and diplomas—displaying how much accreditation the doctors at the clinic had—along with a rather large, pastel print of two ducks flying over a lake.

Edward found the rather poetic phrase "muted cheer" running through his head for some reason.

The blonde heaved a weary sigh and shifted around on the examination table in an effort to get more comfortable; he wasn't exactly thrilled with the hard, metal edge that was biting into the backs of his thighs. However, when he moved, the sheet of sterile paper used to cover up said table crinkled its displease at being disturbed. So, the blonde quickly stilled and settled with another quiet sigh.

He glanced over at the wall clock and noted with a scowl that he had been waiting for this doctor for nearly twenty minutes. What was the goddamn holdup? He growled slightly and his frown deepened, tanned brow furrowing as he turned back to glare at the door.

God, he hated doctors. What did they do? Nothing. They could never help anyone, really. All they could do was stand there in their stupid white coats and give bottles upon bottles of useless medicine, crackpot theories, and false hope to little boys who so desperately wanted their mother to get better . . .

Edward blinked rapidly for a moment and bit down on the inside of his cheek; he lowered his gaze to the floor as he attempted to _will _the pressure that had suddenly descended upon his chest away. Doctors hadn't been able to help his mother.

"They can't help _anyone_," he mumbled to himself, letting his eyes slowly slip shut.

"_Brother, I think you're being unfair."_

Ed sighed and turned his head to rest his cheek against his automail shoulder. He wasn't crazy. He _wasn't_. He was as sure of that as he was of the steel table on which he sat; his grip on the lip of the metal slab tightened subconsciously and he was comforted by the weight and solidity of it. It was real and it was _there_ and he wasn't crazy.

But . . .

"_Don't you think you're being unfair, Ed?"_

But his brother's voice had been echoing through his mind as of late. He didn't know when it had started after the boy's death, but Alphonse would now speak to him in that serene, comforting, chiding way that he always had when he was alive, his voice echoing with a familiar metallic resonance.

"How am I being unfair, Al?" he replied to the question softly. "Those doctors were nothing but talk. They didn't save her."

Edward wasn't crazy—he knew that Al was gone and that he wasn't coming back.

"_Just because those doctors in Resembool couldn't save Mom, doesn't mean that all doctors are like that. You're being biased."_

This was just his mind's way of coping with the loss. Al had always been there. And then, suddenly, he wasn't. Ed's mind and heart were just taking longer to adjust to the abrupt absence.

"I am not being biased. You're just upset that I'm right, is all. Just admit it."

"_If all doctors are scum, then what about Winry's parents, hm? They were doctors."_

"They were the exception."

Al's voice in his head was the result. Edward knew that it probably wasn't and that he should talk to someone about it. But he didn't want to.

"_Ed, if you think that doctors are so bad, then what are you doing sitting here, waiting for one to come and look at you?"_

". . . You're right, Al."

He didn't want anyone to discover that he was talking to his dead brother inside his mind, because then . . . then they'd send him to some therapist and he would pull that hokey, shrink _shit _and probably pump him full of drugs, because let's face it: therapists were doctors, too.

"_I am?"_

"Yeah. I don't need to be here. I'm leaving."

They would try to make him stop listening. Stop hearing. They would make Edward ignore the voice until it went away. Until it stopped. And that was why the blonde would not tell anyone about his little brother's voice.

"_Edward, you will _not!_ You've been really sick lately and you're going to sit here on this table and let the nice doctor have a look at you! So sit down and shut up!"_

He didn't _ever _want Al to stop talking.

To disappear.

Ed had paused in his impromptu escape at Al's outburst, letting his flesh hand gently grip the doorknob—he could feel the dull gilded surface, scratched and chipping away in haphazard flecks, beneath his palm—but making no move to turn it. The blonde alchemist chuckled slightly, tilting his head back to smile up at the ceiling; he closed his eyes and mumbled, "All right, Al. If you say so."

A hollow sigh reverberated inside his skull for a moment, then Al said, _"Good. After all, Brother, you really __do__ seem sick."_

The voice had gone from scolding to concerned at a rate that only Alphonse could have managed and Edward allowed himself a smile at this. It was strange. He had always thought of himself as the older brother—the one who took care of his family. But in reality, it had been the youngest Elric that had always been the more sensible, caring one. And in his soft, almost pedantic way, Alphonse had been the one who had protected him. And he still did. "You're right as always Al."

_I'm not crazy._

"I am sick."

_. . . How true._

Edward could almost hear metal creaking and grinding against metal, as the Alphonse of his mind shifted nervously. _"Brother? How long have you been sick, anyway?"_

The blonde suddenly opened his eyes to the white ceiling, considering Al's question carefully. It wasn't really the question that had been asked—though, that in itself was enough to give the alchemist pause, considering that he wasn't too sure himself—but the _tone _that Alphonse had taken.

It was tone that spoke of knowledge beyond years. A tone that was assuming and deducing. And on one Alphonse Elric, it did _not _look good.

Edward shrugged what he hoped was a dismissive manner. "I don't know. I've been puking for awhile now. Maybe . . . two or three weeks."

Was that right? Three _weeks_? That certainly seemed like a long time to be throwing up, especially at the rate that the Fullmetal had been doing it. Of course, that was why Hawkeye had insisted that Edward go to a doctor—and, because it was _Hawkeye_, Edward had agreed. Otherwise, he wouldn't now be standing in a room of "muted cheer," his hand resting on the battered doorknob, arguing with his dead brother in his head.

"Why?" he asked softly, being careful to not make the question sound too accusatory or suspicious.

There was a pause, then more shifting of steel, before Al's quiet voice chimed, _"Oh, no reason, really. It's just . . . that's an awfully long time to be sick, Brother. Don't you think?"_

Ed sighed and closed his eyes again, nodding silently to the question. Then, he tensed, waiting for the gentle assault that he knew was coming, because, really, Al was too smart for his own good. And he was too curious not to ask.

"_Isn't . . . isn't that around the same time that . . . you, y'know . . . you spent the night with, um . . . with the Colonel?"_

Well, Alphonse had certainly hit the nail on the head and the blonde alchemist winced as if he himself had been struck with the hammer. Edward had been trying to not think about that night too much, seeing as how he had somehow managed to go through with not one, but _two _reprehensible, iniquitous, and damnably taboo acts in the time span of two hours. It wasn't something that he was too proud of.

The failed soul attachment had been bad enough, but then . . . But then the Bastard had swooped down like some fucking alchemic _knight _and had . . . He had . . .

Edward sighed wearily.

Mustang had been wonderfully, unbelievably, _infuriatingly _gentle and comforting, despite the awkwardness of the situation. He had stared down at the blonde and Ed had drunken up the lust and concern in his dark eyes, noting the distinctive tracks running down his cheeks. Edward had taken that comfort and nourished himself on it, then and had fed it back to the man through his moans and half-choked sobs.

Because in all the years that he had known the colonel, he had never once seen him shed a tear. But that night, he had witnessed something that he was sure few people could claim: He had seen the great Flame Alchemist break down.

It wasn't the splendid event that Ed had always imagined it would be. There was no gloating or laughing or mocking jeers; there was only pity and sorrow. And fear. In that moment, Edward had stared into the eyes of a man broken and he had been afraid.

Because that night, Mustang had been his rock.

He had been his _rock _and it was alarming to Edward to see the foundation suddenly shift and watch the granite slab that was Roy Mustang begin to crack and crumble. Ed had panicked and done the only thing he could think of: he had drawn an array and pressed his hands against it, forcing his will to stabilize outwards and into the stone.

They had kissed.

And the statue had soaked up that console and had spread its arms to return it and Edward had eagerly accepted. Not because it was this man or because it was _equivalent_, but because he didn't want to think. He just wanted to lie there and forget and just _feel _for one moment.

_Does that make me a bad person?_

Ed's amber eyes opened once again and he gave a gusty sigh, the conversation that he had had with Hawkeye that very morning coming back to him with embarrassingly vivid clarity.

* * *

Edward had been slumped over one of the toilets in Central HQ, trying to keep his hair pulled back as he vomited his guts out for what had felt like the hundredth time that day. His sinuses had burned and his eyes had watered, but he just couldn't find it in him to reach up and press the flusher. At that point, Ed had wondered vaguely at how many people would laugh at his funeral if he were to simply drown himself in the toilet right then and there. Boy, he could just see the headlines then: "Fullmetal Alchemist Commits Suicide, Death by Commode."

Somewhere, someone very, very vindictive was having a hardy laugh at his expense.

It had been sometime around the tenth retch of the morning when the blonde had heard the bathroom door open, followed by the familiar click of taloned heels.

Edward had looked up miserably to find the blonde first lieutenant staring down at him with what might be construed as surprise. "Major Elric?" she had asked uncertainly, as though she wasn't sure it was really him. "What are you doing in the women's restroom?"

And his day just got that much better.

The blonde had turned truly crimson, then chuckled and rubbed the back of his head in discomfiture; he then had opened his mouth to explain that, on his way to drop off a report at the office, a sudden wave of nausea had hit him and that he had rushed into the nearest lavatory without stopping to examine the sign too closely; however, at that very moment, his stomach had gurgled unhappily and he had gagged on air.

He hadn't seen Hawkeye's reaction, considering that his face had been buried in a toilet bowl, but he figured that she had grimaced and left him to flounder in his misery alone. It had surprised him immensely when he had suddenly felt warm hands on his back, rubbing gentle circles, and having his blonde fringe pulled back out of his flushed face.

Edward had panted heavily for several moments, swallowed and gagged once more, without producing anything; after several more deep breaths, the blonde had deemed it safe to sit back on his heels and he had looked up at Hawkeye as she pressed the flusher down, his amber eyes shining appreciatively. "Thanks," he had muttered, reaching up to wipe his flesh wrist against his lips.

"Edward, are you all right?" she had asked. Her voice had sounded in its usual, clipped tone, but the alchemist had seen how her auburn eyes had shown with genuine concern. "What's wrong?"

The Fullmetal had not intended on telling her what had happened—he hadn't intended on telling _anyone _what had happened—but for some reason, looking at the lieutenant then, seeing the unease and compassion on her normally masked face and remembering the feel of her palm smoothing circles on his lower back, he was suddenly reminded of his mother . . . and he had broken down.

He had told her everything. About how he had planned the soul transmutation and how he had carried it out (but not about the Gate, because really, Hawkeye was a good person and didn't deserve _that _haunting her dreams as well), about how he had woken up and had felt pain and had just run for his life. About how Mustang had found him and, in his very Mustang way, had looked after him and comforted him; and then, about how he and Ed had had . . . _sex _. . . He told her about the sudden illness and how he was vomiting constantly.

The blonde had let it all flow out of him, like a great dam being released—the stopper had been pulled and Ed was watching as it all went swirling down the drain in a cyclonic vortex. The knots in his stomach had seemed to lessen as the words and tears poured out of him and he had just felt light and calm. Why hadn't he realized before how unbelievably _cathartic _it was to tell someone? For nearly four weeks he had kept it bottled up, letting it eat away at his heart like acid.

Confessing these sins was almost like pouring a base over his insides, neutralizing the caustic burn. And it felt wonderful.

Cleansing.

Hawkeye had borne it all. She had crouched there next to him on the dingy restroom floor, her hands resting gently on her knees and a concentrated expression on her face as Ed had unloaded his burden and split it with her. It probably hadn't been something that she had wanted, and at the tight-lipped expression she had taken on whenever the blonde had mentioned his rendezvous with the colonel, he had wanted to stop.

But once the floodgates were opened, there was no way to quell the flood.

_I'm sorry Hawkeye._

Edward couldn't remember how long he had sat there and sobbed—his automail shoulder pressed firmly against the grey plywood of the bathroom stall, his red jacket soaking up the moisture off the floor—before he had finally gotten ahold of himself and realized what he had just done.

_Oh, God, no._

He hadn't wanted to unload all of that on the first lieutenant, no matter _how _good it felt. It had _not _been her burden to bear—his mistakes were his, his sins were _his _and his alone—and he had regretted ever having had opened his mouth, especially because . . . Because he was not so blind as to have never seen the way that she looked at the colonel.

_I am so sorry._

So then, on top of the newly-understood feeling of release, there had been a haze of dread and guilt. And Edward had felt sick all over again when he realized that he wanted those feelings to go away.

Because he was just _that _much of a selfish bastard.

The Fullmetal had bowed his head in shame, letting his blonde bangs shelter his eyes. He hadn't wanted to look at Hawkeye; hadn't wanted to see the look of loathing, pity, and disgust that was sure to reside there.

"Edward," she spoke softly. He cringed like he had been struck.

"_Please_," he interjected. "Please don't look at me like I'm some kind of monster. I'm not a bad person, I just . . ." Ed had stopped, because really, what was he, if not what he had just denied? He had no excuse. Except . . .

"Edward—"

"Lieutenant . . . have you ever seen someone die?"

He had sensed an uncomfortable aura radiate off of her at the question and had heard a rustle of fabric as she has shifted. Ed had known that Hawkeye had been in Ishbal and he was no longer quite naïve enough to believe that anyone who was involved in the battles of that war didn't wake up to their own screams in the night.

Hawkeye was no different. She had seen death. Probably caused it, as well; however, Edward had chosen not to bring up those particular demons at that moment in time.

". . . Yes. I have," she finally spoke.

The alchemist had smiled ruefully at this, then whispered out, "They say that you never forget it. But that's not entirely true. Is it?"

He had waited patiently, but Hawkeye had either chosen to give no response to this or had no answer to offer. In either case, Edward had pressed on calmly, "The truth is, you do forget. You _forget _. . . and then you remember it all over again. And that just makes it _so _much worse."

There had been a hand on his shoulder then—his flesh one, for he could feel the trembling pressure and warmth through his layers of fabric—and a hushed, "Edward."

"_One night_," he had very nearly snarled. "For just _one night _I didn't want to remember what I had done . . . and what I failed to do. I didn't want to _remember_ the death and the pain and the sorrow. I wanted to let go and I wanted to just _feel_. God, I just . . . I just wanted some . . . _contact_. Does that make me a bad person? _Does it?_"

His head had snapped up at these last words and he had stared with wide, red-rimmed eyes at the blonde woman kneeling next to him. A gentle frown was etched on her face and her eyes stared determinedly into his; for just one moment, Ed thought he had seen moisture there. But she had blinked and it was gone.

With a sigh, Hawkeye had reached over and taken ahold of his other shoulder, pulling him up and twisting him to face her. "Of course not," the blonde had stated gently. "You're not a bad person; you never have been and you never will be. What you did . . . it doesn't make you weak. Or a monster. Edward, you have been through so much and you've survived and triumphed. You've faced things . . . _horrors _that would make grown men piss themselves and you have laughed in their faces. Forgive me, Edward Elric, if I sometimes forget that you're only human."

_Only human._

Edward had stared and then for reasons that he didn't know and couldn't help but obey, he had dissolved into tears and pressed himself against her as he wept.

* * *

"_Brother?"_

"Hm?"

"_I asked you if you thought that . . ."_

". . . What is it, Al?"

"_If . . . you thought that . . . you might be sick because of . . . the Colonel?"_

"Hm."

"_. . . Was that a yes?"_

"No, Alphonse. It was a 'hm'. It had no ulterior meaning."

"_Oh."_

". . ."

"_. . ."_

". . . I _have _thought about it, Al . . . Considered it. Yes, it might be because of . . . _that _. . . that I'm sick."

"_. . . I'm glad to see you're considering it, Brother. I mean . . . we've all heard those Colonel-slut rumors . . . Not that I think _you're_ a slut or anything, Brother! I was just . . . I mean . . . I just meant that Colonel Mustang is _promiscuous!_ I didn't mean that _you _were just for sleeping with him or anything! I just . . . Oh . . . I'm not helping myself here, am I?"_

"Al, Al, it's okay. I know that you didn't mean anything by it. It's all right."

"_Oh . . . okay."_

"Yes, it could be that, but . . ."

"_But?"_

"But that was also the night I tried to put your soul back in the armour."

"_Yeah, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. Exactly _what _were you thinking, you idiot brother?"_

"I promise that we'll talk about it later, Al. Please?"

"_Hmph."_

" . . . Hn. In any case, it might be the failed attachment causing this . . . sickness. I don't know how, since I didn't lose anything, but . . . Whaddaya think?"

"_Hm."_

"Was that a yes?"

"_No, it was a 'hm'. It had no ulterior meaning."_

"Heh."

"_. . . Brother?"_

"Hm?"

"_I wish you would smile again."_

". . . I'm sorry, Al."

"_It's all right. I just . . . want you to be happy."_

"That wasn't what I was apologizing for . . . but, all right."

"_. . ."_

". . ."

"_Brother?"_

"Yeah, Al?"

"_I'm sorry, too."_

"Sorry? For what?"

"_. . ."_

". . ."

"_. . . I'm sorry that I died . . ." _

* * *

The doorknob suddenly rattled and twisted beneath Edward's palm and he jerked his hand away as though he just realized it was the head of a poisonous snake; he took a cautionary step backwards as the door swung inwards and someone entered the small room.

Judging from his white coat, the stethoscope he had looped around his neck and the clipboard he was currently staring down at, Ed assumed that this man was the doctor he had been waiting on.

"Okay, Mr . . ." The man glanced up from the paper he had been eying and started at the unexpectedly close proximity of his patient. "Oh, um . . . Mr. Elric?"

The blonde gave a nod, his brow furrowing warily.

The doctor was looking at him with concern and, after a moment, he asked uncertainly, "Are you . . . all right? You look like you've been crying."

Edward blinked and suddenly felt the beads of moisture around his eyes, clinging to his flaxen lashes and running in familiar tracts down his face. _Shit_, he thought as he reached up to wipe the tears away, feeling his face heat up. "I'm fine," he lied, sniffling as he scrubbed at his face. "I just . . . I'm fine."

_(". . . I'm sorry that I died . . .")_

_Alphonse . . ._

The doctor eyed him doubtfully for a short moment, before sighing and motioning for Ed to take a seat on the table once again. The alchemist complied slowly, making his way over to said table and sliding back up onto the metal slab, the paper crunching as he moved. "All right then, Mr. Elric," the man stated tiredly as he himself took a seat in a short, rolling chair near the door. While the man was busy straightening his coat, Edward took a second to give him a quick, rather disinterested once-over:

He was younger than the Fullmetal had expected—in his late thirties or early forties at most—and had an unexpectedly kind face, with crinkling lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth when he smiled. His sandy hair looked like it was beginning to thin and hung limp over his scalp, falling down before his hazel eyes in an almost ethereal fringe. He kept reaching up to push his thin, wire-framed glasses up his nose and Ed caught a glimpse of the man's fingernails, all of them bitten down to the quick.

The doctor suddenly sighed and looked up at him. "Mr. Elric, my name is Dr. Antley," he said hospitably, a small smile on his features. "And I am the one who is going to try and figure out what is wrong with you."

Edward snorted and rolled his golden eyes at the man. _Idiot . . ._

"_Brother, be nice," _Al's voice chided.

_You be quiet, Al. Just don't. And don't you _ever _think about telling me that you are sorry, again. Especially for something that was my fault._

"_It wasn't your fault, Ed. I know that and you should just stop blaming yourself for something that you couldn't help . . . But, you're sick . . . and you're with the doctor . . . so I'm not going to fight with you about this right now." _

_. . . Al . . . _

"_I'll . . . talk to you later, okay? I love you, you stupid brother."_

"_Al_," Ed whispered out through clenched teeth, trying his hardest to keep the monster in his chest from crawling out of his mouth and eyes. He knew that, if he let them, the tears would come; Edward had never done so much crying in his life than he had done over the past five weeks—sometimes, over the _stupidest_ things he could think of. He couldn't imagine that he would have any tears left to give; however, he could feel the now-familiar burning in his eyes and tightening of his throat and he knew that he wasn't quite cried out just yet.

The doctor, Antley, had gone back to reading whatever was on his precious clipboard, but looked up at the sound that Edward had made; the alchemist gripped the table firmly and _willed_ the tears and sadness away. He had to hold himself together and just not _think _about his brother while he was here.

He could do that.

He _could_, damnit.

Edward assumed an air of turbulent nonchalance and the two men considered each other for a short minute, before Antley leant back in his chair and threw one leg casually over the other. "Now, Mr. Elric," he said, glancing down his clipboard again before looking back up at Ed, "I hear that you've been having some stomach problems?"

The blonde sniffed and shrugged one shoulder as he looked away, deciding that the small attrition on the nearest wall was far more interesting _(safe)_ to look at than the man he was speaking to. "Yeah. I've been throwing up for about three weeks now."

"Three _weeks_?" the doctor asked, sounding very much like Ed had when discussing his illness with Alphonse only minutes before; Ed heard the scratching of a pen against paper. "Constantly? Or at irregular intervals?"

The alchemist reached back and scratched at the base of his braid absently. He really hadn't thought too much about it. "Um . . . j-just about every day, I guess. Mostly when I get up in the morning, but it isn't confined to just that time."

There was a pause and then more noise as pen once again conquered paper. Antley mumbled something to himself and then asked, "Is that it?"

Edward blinked and brought his golden eyes back to meet the hazel ones of his doctor. "Isn't that _enough_?" he questioned, making sure that Antley caught the upset tone of his voice.

The straw-haired man gave a light chuckle at this and rephrased his inquiry, "I meant do you have any other symptoms?"

"Like . . . ?" the alchemist asked, quirking a thin eyebrow.

"Like . . ." Antley raised his hands and gesticulated, twirling them in slow circles at the wrist, as if these movements would draw in symptoms from the air. "Like diarrhea or blood in the urine or feces? Pain in the chest, throat, neck or lower back? Fever, chills, nosebleed, sinus trouble, coughing? Anything. Anything that you feel wouldn't be happening to you if you were in top form."

Ed let his brow furrow as Antley dropped his thin hands back to the clipboard. "Now that you mention it, I have been feeling kind of . . . 'flu-y'."

"'Flu-y'?" Antley repeated, tapping his pen to the clipboard. "Muscles tight, kind of feverish, sore throat . . . like that?"

"Y-yeah. Kinda. Except, without the sore throat."

"Hm. Okay," the doctor said, bowing his head to resume writing.

Ed swallowed thickly, unconsciously reaching up to rub at the point on his shoulder where automail met flesh. "And . . . I dunno. I've just been feeling kind of . . . _off_." Edward wasn't sure if 'feeling off' constituted as a symptom, but it _was _something that he felt shouldn't be happening to him.

Antley looked up. "_Off_? Like . . . just not right? Like that?"

"Uh-huh. I can't really explain it. It's like . . . my skin feels thin and tight; like I just don't belong inside my body. Does that make sense?" he asked, uncertain as to whether or not he was getting the point across.

"Hm," the sandy-haired doctor muttered with a nod, looking back down at the paper that he had been scribbling on. "So, vomiting, flu-like symptoms, and . . . just a feeling of unease." He glanced back up at his patient. "Would that describe it?"

Ed considered the man's list, then gave a shrug and a small nod. "Yeah, I guess."

Antley sighed quietly, adjusted his glasses once again, then began to speak, "Well, Mr. Elric—"

"Could you just call me Edward, please?" the blonde interjected suddenly. Seeing the man's expression, Edward huffed out a breath and explained. "It makes me uncomfortable when someone older than me calls me 'mister', so . . ."

The doctor held up his hand in a placating manner and stated softly, "It's not a problem, Edward. I understand." Offering the young alchemist a smile, Antley cleared his throat and continued on his original track. "Well then _Edward_," he said, emphasizing the Elric's first name with a nod and a small smile, "when I first read on your chart that you were vomiting, my immediate assumption was that you had the latest strain of stomach virus that's been going around. I've had a few patients, recently, that have turned up with it and it does strike in your age range."

"However . . . ?" Ed said, because he could just feel a 'but' coming on. After four years of dead-end leads for the philosopher's stone, he had learned to predict 'but's.

Antley sighed. "_However _. . . in those cases, the vomiting only lasted for a day. Two at most. The immune system is able to fight off the virus by then and expel it from the body. So . . ." He trailed off quietly.

Edward let out a rather gusty breath and took up where Antley had left off. "So I can't possibly have that."

"Right. It could, possibly, be another, longer-lasting strain of the same virus, but I haven't seen or heard of any other cases," Antley explained solemnly. "You could also simply have the flu or a cold. After all, you did describe flu-like symptoms and, around this time of the year, it's starting to get cooler and the rhinovirus is going around. However, I've never seen a cold last this long or cause such violent amounts of vomiting." There was a pause then and silence filled up the small room like a miasma, broken only on occasion by a cough or the clicking of a pen. Ed had never liked these types of silences. It reminded him—as strangely as it sounds—of nights lying in bed awake, but pretending he was asleep, just listening to the quiet.

He hated it because he should have been able to hear the snoring or simple breathing of another human being, the rustle of clothes against sheets. Hell, he would have even preferred the sound of metal shifting about to the silence—he knew that Al had learned over the years to sit stock-still late at night in an effort to not wake his sleeping brother. That made the silence even worse, because he was the cause of it.

_Damnit_, he thought. _I promised myself not to think about these things while I was here. Guess I can't even keep a promise to myself._

Sighing wearily, Ed banished those thoughts once again and looked up at his doctor, who was staring at him with a concerned look. "So," he started slowly, "if I don't have any of those things that you mentioned, then . . . what do I have?"

Antley pursed his lips and tapped the end of his pen against them absentmindedly, before putting said pen on the clipboard in his lap and then pushing the whole thing over onto the desk to his left. "Edward," he said, leaning forward in his seat and tenting his fingers, pressing them to his lips as he furrowed his brow. "You _are_ sick. From what you've told me, that I can be sure; however, I'm not sure that this illness is entirely _physical_."

Ed narrowed his eyes. "What are you . . .? What do you mean?"

The man sighed and sat back again. "Stress can cause very adverse effects on the human body. Now, I wouldn't normally consider stress as my immediate ulterior diagnosis, however you seem very anxious. Nervous and jittery. And you _were _crying when I came in earlier. I don't mean to pry into personal business—don't get me wrong," he stated, noticing the rather hostile look that had crossed the Fullmetal's face. "It's just . . . if it's essential to my diagnosis—and subsequently _your _health—then, it _is _rather imperative that I know. Now, has anything stressful happened to you recently?"

Edward nearly laughed at the absurdity. _Stress? He thinks that I've been blowing chunks for the past month because I'm stressed out? What fucking planet is he from? _The blonde just wanted to crawl under the table, curl up and die. He wanted to disappear. Stress? His whole fucking life had been nothing but stress and heartbreak. Why was his body objecting to it now? It should have been used to it.

"My . . . little brother . . ." Ed heard himself whisper harshly. "He died. About five weeks ago. Is _that _stressful enough?"

Antley's dark eyes softened at this and his mouth curved downwards in a graceful frown. "I'm very sorry, Edward, for your loss. But . . ." The doctor cleared his throat. ". . . I believe that _that _could be the reason for your sudden, violent sickness. I'm sure that, coupled with your brother's absence, you've been getting less sleep at night and eating less," he ventured. "Correct?"

Ed didn't say anything, but gave a curt nod as his response. Antley continued, "As I thought. The stress is taking its toll on your body. These symptoms you are experiencing are probably your body telling you that you need to slow down."

Antley stood suddenly and put his hands into his coat pockets. "Edward, I know that what you are going through is difficult and I sympathize, really I do. I wish that it was nothing but a simple stomach virus. _That _I can fix."

"I know, Doctor," Ed muttered pitifully. "You can't give medicine for a broken heart."

The sandy-haired man offered the blonde a sympathetic smile. "No. Unfortunately, I cannot. However, I can give you . . ." He trailed off, turning to pick up his clipboard once again and then jotted down something on a spare piece of paper he had. Tearing the paper away, he held it out to Ed between two fingers and stated, ". . . this."

Edward reached out and plucked the paper away; glancing down at it, he saw nothing but a telephone number and looked up at Antley skeptically. "What's this?"

"_That_," said Antley, nodding at the paper, "is the number of Dr. Ernest Wilhelm. He's a very noted psychologist and a very good friend of mine. I highly suggest that you give him a call. In fact, I'm making it a doctor's order. Rest assured that I will call him to be sure that you go in to see him."

Edward gaped, actually struck speechless by the sheer audacity of this man. How dare he? How dare he assume that he, Edward Elric, would actually go to a psychologist—a _therapist_—just because he said so? How _dare_ he? A doctor's order? He would take that and shove it up his ass! The insufferable prick! He had examined—if you could call it that—Edward for all of ten minutes and then foisted him off on yet another doctor, saying that his problem was mental? Is that how he justified it? Bastard!

Antley cocked his head to one side at Edward's expression, but said nothing as he nodded and turned away to make his leave. Well, the blonde would have none of that! "Antley!" he snapped, hopping off of the table.

At the sound of his name and the way in which it had been spoken, the doctor stopped and turned back to his patient, his expression curious. "Yes, Edward?"

"Look, I . . ." the alchemist started, his voice almost snarling. "I didn't tell you everything."

Ed blinked.

_What? Where the hell did that come from?_

Antley seemed almost as surprised by the blonde's sudden outburst as he was. "Oh?" he questioned, his eyebrows climbing on his face towards his receding hairline. Shutting the door gently behind him, Antley turned back to face his now-pale patient. "And what more do you have to tell me?"

* * *

Dr. Antley's expression had remained neutral as Edward had explained in halted, stumbling sentences about his one-night stand almost four weeks previous. The blonde had rushed to explain that, though he was acquainted with the person with whom he had committed the act, he also knew that said person was rather promiscuous themselves and that he really didn't know of their sexual history; he also stated that, if he had indeed caught some sort of horrible disease as a result of sexual intercourse, then it had to have been from this certain person, seeing as how Edward himself had been a virgin up until that time.

By the end of it, the alchemist's whole face had assumed a rather violent shade of purple and he couldn't look Antley in the eye.

"So," the doctor began, reaching up to adjust his glasses with a heavy sigh. "You believe that you contracted an STD from this person and that is what is causing this sudden illness. Is that everything? Or is there anything else I should know?"

_Anything else? Yeah . . . there's something else. There's the fact that I'm an idiot; the fact that I tried a soul transmutation, not once, but for the second time in my life and I must be the luckiest fucking bastard in all of Amestris to have survived them both. There's the fact that, if I hadn't tried it, none of this would be happening right now. So, yeah . . . there's _that.

After a moment's hesitation, the blonde gave his head a weary shake. No. He couldn't tell that to his doctor, even if it _was_ the reason for his illness.

Antley frowned and closed his eyes with a sigh. "That's . . . a possibility," he stated slowly. "As much as I hate to admit it. I wish that you would have mentioned this incident from the get-go, son."

". . . Sorry," Ed mumbled, wringing his gloved hands together anxiously, too soul-sore to really counter the fatherly nickname tacked onto the end of the statement. "I didn't think it was important."

The doctor sighed once again and waved off the apology, though the teen couldn't see it. "It's all right, Edward. No need to apologize. We'll . . . we'll work with this. This definitely opens up new doors, as far as causes and treatments are concerned."

There was a silence as Antley paused to think, pressing a finger to his mouth absently; Edward chose this moment to look up at him, his cheeks still pink from his earlier tale. "So . . . what are you gonna do?"

The man arched a delicate eyebrow and took in a breath. "Well, Edward," he said, leaning back in his chair. "First and foremost we are going to draw some blood and have that sent away for a battery of tests. It won't take long, I assure you—a week at most. Based on those results, we will start a treatment."

Edward nodded slowly, then frowned. "What kind of tests?"

"Well," said Antley, scratching at the back of his head, "they'll run a full serologic test—which tests for certain diseases—and an agglutination or heterophil test—that will identify unknown antigens in the blood. Seeing as you're a teenager, I'll put down for a hormone test, just to check and be sure that it's nothing pituitary or adrenal. They'll test everything. I guarantee you that, if there is something to find, we will find it. Just wait a week."

"And until then?" Edward asked, anxiety lacing his voice.

Antley let out a sigh and rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses. "Until then, Edward, all we can do is wait. I hate to put you on any type of medication, considering that we aren't sure yet if it is something physical or—like I speculated earlier—if it has to do with stress. We don't want to act impulsively. Medication now could do more harm than good. Understand?"

The blonde was still for a long while—his left hand pressed gently against his mouth, a far-off look in his eyes—and Antley began to wonder if he had actually gone into shock. Bbut then, his patient gave a small nod and a muttered, "Yeah."

Antley watched him for a few more seconds, before sighing and standing to take his leave. "I'll send in a nurse to draw your blood and we'll send it off the lab to be tested. Anything else you'd like to know before I go, Edward?"

The blonde considered him for a short moment, chewing on his bottom lip, before he relinquished a weary sigh. "If . . . if the tests come back as positive . . . will you tell people?"

Antley blinked. He was surprised, not only by the question, but by the look of unmasked fear on Ed's face. "Edward," he said softly, crossing the room and placing his hands on the boy's shoulders. He was vaguely aware that his left hand was gently squeezing metal, but he made no move to question it at that point. "Edward, if this person is as . . . er, _indiscriminate _as you describe, then you may have to tell me their name later on. We certainly don't want some kind of epidemic on our hands, do we?" He chuckled softly, and the statement encouraged a small smile from Edward. "But, I promise," Antley continued, gripping the blonde's shoulders, "that is the _only _circumstance that I will break doctor-patient confidentiality under. You can trust me on that, okay?"

Edward brought his gold eyes up to meet Antley's and gave a small nod. "All right," he whispered.

The doctor patted him once on the shoulder and then turned to leave for the third time that day. "I'll send Beverly in to draw your blood in a few minutes, so just sit tight 'til then. Goodbye, Mr. Edward Elric."

And with that, Dr. Antley took his leave.

* * *

The phone on Mustang's desk rang once . . . twice . . . three times before he finally picked it up and brought the receiver to his ear. "Colonel Mustang." He threw out his name and rank as a form of greeting, stopping in his boring review of some boring report by some boring field agent to stretch and say a silent prayer of thanks, because honestly up until the point where the phone rang, he had been considering throwing himself out of the office window, just to give himself something better to do.

"Colonel Mustang, sir," stated one of the operators. Her voice was so clipped and professional that the colonel felt compelled to look up to check whether or not his first lieutenant was still in the room. Of course, he didn't need to—he could feel her disapproving eyes on him. "There's a doctor calling from an unsecured line. He wishes to speak to you. Should I patch him through, sir?"

Roy glanced askance at the receiver cradled against his face and lifted an elegant eyebrow. "A doctor?" he asked uncertainly. "What does he want?"

"He won't say, sir. Just that he wants to speak with you. Should I patch him through?" she repeated, her voice taking on a snappish air of aggravation.

_Well_, thought Roy placidly, choosing to pointedly ignore the tone the woman had used and focusing instead on the point she was making. _This is interesting. _A doctor—no name mentioned, Roy noticed—was calling into the office to talk _only_ to him. The colonel knew that he hadn't been to the doctor's recently and he was certain that the last time he had, it had been a visit to the infirmary and _not_ an outside office. So, what did this guy want?

"Patch him through, please."

There was a soft click and, after a few moments of silence, another voice chimed over the line. "Hello, Colonel Mustang," the man on the other end of the line answered hospitably. Roy didn't recognize the voice, but the doctor's tones were soft and gentle—it gave Roy the impression that the man was a pediatrician. "My name is Dr. Joseph Antley—you don't know me."

"No, I don't," the colonel affirmed curtly. "May I help you, Doctor?"

Havoc, Fuery, and Breda all looked up from the work that they were (supposedly) doing at the big table, suddenly interested in the one side of the conversation that they could hear. Falman didn't look up because Falman had better things to do with his time than eavesdrop.

"I certainly hope that you can," the doctor—Antley, wasn't it?—stated calmly. "You see, last week one of your subordinates—a Mr. Elric—came to my offices and I examined him."

Roy's ears immediately perked up and his stomach churned with guilt. "Fullmetal?" he asked, swallowing thickly and seeing Hawkeye's gaze shift to him, as well. "What was wrong with him?"

Antley cleared his throat loudly and explained, "He came in complaining of stomach troubles. Vomiting to be specific. We ruled out the flu and other common viruses, to a certain degree and . . . well, to make a long story short, we sent some blood samples away to be examined."

One of the colonel's delicate brows arched upwards, his curiosity piqued. "And?" he asked, looking away from the big table, where three sets of eyes were now boring into him.

"And the results were . . ." There was a gusty expulsion of breath on the doctor's part. ". . . _interesting_, to say the least."

Roy's eyebrow, now joined by the other one, arched clean off his head and shot through the ceiling. "'Interesting'? What exactly does that mean, Doctor?"

This time, Falman _did_ look up.

Antley suddenly cleared his throat loudly into his mouthpiece, causing Roy to wince away, and then stated firmly, "I don't think that this is an appropriate place to discuss it. I am going to ask you to please pick up Mr. Elric and come down to my offices as soon as possible. _Alone_, if at all possible."

The dark-haired officer let his mouth silently fall open. _What?_ He could still feel the intense weight of the other office members' eyes upon him and Roy waved them off in aggravation. "Now, look—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mustang," Antley interrupted smoothly. "But that is my decision. Please bring Edward down and I shall explain everything, I promise. Mr. _Mustang_," he said sternly, as if sensing and heading off the comment that the colonel was about to shout at him. "If you truly value your subordinate's safety, you will not question what I ask."

It occurred to Roy then, as he slammed his free hand down against his desk, that he couldn't remember when he had gotten to his feet or just when this conversation had spun so horribly out of his control.

"Is that some kind of a threat, _Doctor_?" he grated out. Now, Hawkeye was on her feet, hand unconsciously sliding to the holster at her belt, her expression drawn. Roy shook his head at her and then turned his attention back to the phone in his hand.

There was a gentle sigh from Antley. "No, not a threat, Mr. Mustang. Just a warning for Edward's safety. And, seeing as he is your charge, for your own, as well." Roy's brow furrowed and he took a chance in asking what the hell the good doctor meant by that; however, as predicted, Antley chose to explain this riddle no further. Instead, he then gave Mustang the address of the office he was at, a brief description of how to get there, and bid him farewell. As the sound of a dial tone assaulted his eardrums, Roy slammed the receiver home in the cradle and turned his fiery glare to his first lieutenant.

"Find me Fullmetal!"

* * *

At the memory of that enlightening phone call only an hour before, Roy's gloved grip tightened compulsively on the steering wheel of the black town car he had requisitioned—honestly, if the whole damn thing hadn't been so well crafted, the colonel was sure that the wheel would have snapped under the pressure. He just couldn't believe the _gall _of that doctor. How _dare_ he speak to him like that? Didn't he know who he was?

The officer let out a weary sigh and relaxed his hold on the steering wheel, letting his onyx eyes dart over to his sulking passenger. The blonde was hunched up in his seat, pressed as close to the passenger side door (and, Roy noticed, as far away from him) as he could manage and was glaring daggers out of his window. The Colonel brought his eyes back to the road.

It hadn't taken Hawkeye long to find him—he had been huddled in the library, getting some research done when she had finally tracked him down. At the mention of Antley, he had dropped his books onto the floor, earning a strangled gasp from Ms. Culmstoke, the librarian, and had _leapt_ away from the couch to follow the first lieutenant; however, upon arriving at the garage and seeing the Flame behind the wheel, actually _getting_ him into the car had been a very different story.

When they had driven away, Fuery was sporting a nasty lump on his head and Roy was sure that Havoc would walk funny for the rest of the day; Falman had taken Breda off to the infirmary to get his hand looked at because try as she might, Hawkeye could not convince the cynophobic that Edward did _not_ have rabies.

Back in the present, Roy sighed again and took a right onto Mullins at the four-way stop. After _that night_ Edward had made himself scarce around the office, not that Roy could blame him. In fact, the one time that Ed _had_ come in (Mustang had had a lead on the stone and had sent Havoc to track the blonde down), he hadn't looked at the colonel once throughout the entirety of the conversation, instead keeping his aureate eyes glued to the folder he had been handed, and had nearly sprinted out of the office when he'd been dismissed. The encounter had left Roy feeling cold and clammy, his gut churning unpleasantly; it drove home to him the fact that the two of them would probably never be able to talk about what had happened between them, because, prodigy though he may have been, Edward was still a child in these matters. And that thought had only made Roy want to crawl under his desk and die even more so.

Roy had meant to help Edward that night. He'd wanted to comfort him. Make things just a little bit better. But in the end, he had just made it worse. In an effort to fix what was damaged, he had slept with Edward and had most likely ruined him; broken him for good.

But, that was just like him, wasn't it?

The resident fuck-up.

The Flame sighed and took a left on Hubert Ave., because that was where Antley had directed him to go in his scant directions. They had crossed Central, past the big park and across the river, and were now following the meandering back roads to the well-hidden offices of Humboldt, Jones, & Antley; Roy wondered vaguely how Ed had made it all the way out here the last time he had come to this doctor. He had then found himself wondering why the blonde had _had_ to, when there was an infirmary right there in HQ.

Roy swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "So," he said slowly, attempting to break the silence that had enveloped the plush interior of the military-issued car. "That doctor said that you'd been throwing up?"

If possible, at the sound of Roy's voice, the Fullmetal pulled even further away from his commanding officer than before—as if he were trying to meld himself to his door—and clamped his eyes firmly shut. "Yes," he snarled, the immediacy of the answer startling Roy somewhat. "And if you don't shut up and drive, I'm gonna do it all over your lap."

_Well._

How could Roy argue with that?

He shut up. He drove.

* * *

"So, Dr. Antley, may ask what was so _damn _important that it couldn't be discussed over the phone?" Roy growled, watching as the doctor closed the door to his office behind them. "That I had to be dragged down here in the middle of a work day?"

The man looked like what Roy had expected. The long white coat over a maroon collared shirt and khaki trousers; the soft touch of grey in his sandy hair and the laugh lines around the corners of his mouth that betrayed his age; the wire-framed hazel eyes, glittering with tired mirth, a barely-there enthusiasm, and . . . fear?

"Oh, shut up, you bastard," the Colonel heard Edward grumble from his seat; he turned to glare at the blonde as Antley made his way around his ample desk. "Like you needed an excuse to get out of work. Just thank him and get the hell off your high horse."

_Well_, thought Roy blandly. _At least that's one thing that hasn't changed._ He opened his mouth to respond to the jibe, but Antley cut him off.

"Gentlemen," he said chidingly, attempting to head off the verbal battle that was sure to ensue.

Roy huffed and turned back to face the doctor. "As I was asking, Dr. Antley, why are we here?"

Ed chose this point it time to speak up, his voice laced with annoyance, a pout threatening. "More importantly, why is _he _here?" Roy didn't have to look down at the younger alchemist to know that it was _he_ that was being referred to. "Was all that you spouted about doctor-patient confidentiality just some bogus shit?"

Antley, who had finally taken a seat behind his big, flat-topped desk and was currently pulling a file from a drawer, looked up at this question. "No, Edward, no," he answered, shaking his head stiffly. "The circumstances were . . ." Antley sighed and let the folder fall onto his desktop, then leaned forward and crossed his arms over it. "As I told Mr. Mustang over the phone, the results of your blood tests were extremely odd and very interesting. Under any other circumstance—to a certain extent—your age would not have been taken into account. However, I felt that it would be best, considering the results of your test, to have a parent or guardian present."

"This _bastard _isn't my guardian!" the blonde screeched, jabbing his white-robed finger at said bastard. Roy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _I guess that's something _else_ that hasn't changed._ _I suppose I should be happy about that._

The sandy-haired doctor grimaced at the volume of Edward's voice in the confines of his office (something that Roy barely noticed anymore) and lifted his hands in a placating manner. "I know Edward, I know; however, the people that you put down as your family and your emergency contacts live very far to the East and South. It would not have been feasible for me to contact them and make them come here without giving them direct answers to the questions that I'm sure they would have asked—it wasn't something that I felt safe doing over the phone, as Mr. Mustang probably won't hesitate to tell you." Antley then indicated Roy with a dismissive wave of his hand, just in case Ed had forgotten who he was. The Colonel's eye twitched in annoyance.

"Fullmetal Alchemist—'Hero of the People', as it were," the doctor said airily. Edward's eyebrows furrowed and Antley shrugged. "Your name sounded familiar, so I asked around. Not only that, but your automail gave you away. I figured that, at your age, there had to be someone closer to Central that you saw as your guardian and I assumed that it might be your commanding officer. Apparently, I was mistaken and for that I apologize; however—"

"_Please_."

This one pitifully moaned word was enough to bring the doctor's explanation to a grinding halt and almost, _almost_ made Roy forget how to breathe. Ed slumped forward in his chair and caught his face in his hands, threading his fingers up through his blonde fringe. "Please, Antley. It's been a _week_. A whole week of waiting. Of not knowing. It nearly killed me, do you understand? I don't want to wait anymore, so just . . . Please. Just tell me what the hell I've got. Tell me what's wrong with me so I can just go home and just . . ."

Ed let himself trail off and Roy suddenly felt the guilt hit him square in the chest once again. Lifting his hand from its hanging place at his side, the colonel reached out slowly and gently gripped the Fullmetal's flesh shoulder, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. To say that he was surprised when the blonde didn't slap his hand away or shout at him to never _touch _him again would have been a vast understatement.

"Edward," Antley sighed, finally opening up the manila folder he had previously extracted from his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. "You're healthy."

Ed dropped his hands and looked up, skepticism etched into his boyish features. "What?"

"You're perfectly healthy," the doctor repeated simply, his face oddly blank. He shrugged and handed two of the papers over to the teenager. Roy let his hand drop away as Edward reached forward to accept them, and then scanned the graphs and meaningless numbers over Ed's shoulder. "There are no signs of any pathogens in your blood," the sandy-haired man was saying. "Both the serologic and agglutination tests came back as resounding negatives."

Edward breathed out a long-awaited sigh of sweet relief.

Roy, however—though equally relieved that his subordinate was okay—was a little more irritated. "That's what you made us drive all the way out here to tell us? He's healthy? Pardon me if I'm a little upset over the fact that _this_ was the big secret you couldn't tell me over the phone. Also, if he's perfectly healthy, then why is he—"

"_However_," Antley said pointedly, holding up the final sheet of paper in his hand and glancing up at Roy. The Colonel swallowed the rest of his comment and grimaced at the bad taste, scowling as the man who had interrupted him looked back at Ed. "The test of your hormones came back with a very different result. It's the reason, as Mr. Mustang kindly pointed out, that you are vomiting."

The alchemist's face fell. "So, it is . . . pi-pit—"

"Pituitary," the doctor finished kindly, nodding. "It's a section of the brain that controls hormones. Or, in this case, I think it could be considered more adrenal."

Both alchemists looked confused by this statement, so Antley simply handed the last piece of paper over to Ed, who eagerly snatched it away to look at. Roy leaned over to read it as well, but it was all graphs and diagrams. There were a few words here and there around the graphs, but the Flame found himself questioning whether or not they were even real words.

He was an alchemist, damnit. Arrays, chemicals, the ratio of oxygen to the hydrogen and nitrogen in the air . . . he could do that. But _this_? When it came to anything medically related, Roy was about as useless as he would be if his pyrotex gloves had been left out on a rainy day. Apparently, Edward was of the same mind. "Antley," he said uncertainly, golden eyes darting over the indecipherable paper. "I can work out the most difficult of arrays, but I don't know what the _hell _this stuff says."

The doctor allowed himself a small chortle at this and shook his head. Putting his elbows up onto the desktop and lacing his fingers together to rest his chin upon, Antley very suddenly reminded Roy of himself behind his own desk back at HQ.

"Those charts, gentlemen," he stated, "are readings of the different hormonal levels within Edward's body. The different peaks—" Antley pointed to the paper clutched in Ed's hand then. "—indicate certain hormones that have spiked recently. Meaning, their amounts—at least when Edward's blood was drawn a week ago—had increased dramatically."

Roy blinked, letting his eyebrows meet in the centre of his face angrily. "He's . . . he's a _teenager_! Aren't his hormones _supposed _to be spiking?"

Antley sighed and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Yes, Mr. Mustang. _Yes_, Edward is a teenager and, _yes_, at this point in his life, his hormones will be changing and screwing about with his body considerably. However, the hormones that were most increased . . . were hormones that one would not generally _find_ in a teenage boy."

The colonel let his onyx eyes narrow and looked askance at Edward. The boy appeared just as confused as Mustang felt and that offered no comfort to the dark-haired man. "What do you mean, Antley?" the blonde asked quietly. "What . . . what hormones are you talking about?"

Antley sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time that day and bowed his head behind his folded hands. "We found elevated levels of estrogen, progesterone, and hCG or Human Chorionic Gonadotropin."

Ed looked up at Roy. Roy looked down at Ed. Then they both looked back at Antley, faces blank. "What the hell are those?" the blonde asked, arching an eyebrow.

Roy, however, recognized one of the aforementioned hormones. "Isn't estrogen a . . . _female _hormone?" he asked the doctor, crossing his arms and pointedly ignoring the death-glare that Ed sent his way at the question.

Antley looked up at him in surprise and nodded slowly. "Yes, it is. When I first saw that there was an increase in that particular hormone I thought that perhaps Edward was taking hormone replacements. Possibly, he was trying to become more like a woman. I've had patients before that ha—breathe Edward, _breathe_," he stated suddenly. Roy looked down at his subordinate and saw why:

The blonde had suddenly gone blue in the face.

"I am _not _a fucking _girl_!" the Fullmetal wheezed out through clenched teeth, gripping the armrests of his chair mercilessly in what looked like a valiant effort to keep himself from launching himself across the desk at his doctor.

"I know, son," Antley placated. "Please calm down and allow me to explain." After a long moment where Ed was allowed to get rid of the steam that had accumulated inside his head, the sandy-haired doctor adjusted his glasses and continued, "However, I changed my mind when I saw the increase in progesterone and hCG. Those are hormones that one cannot simply _buy _or be prescribed. They are hormones found only . . . in pregnant women."

The office stopped breathing.

At that moment, if someone were to come in and inform the room's occupants that he had created the philosopher's stone and the fuhrer had been found dead with a note naming Roy as his successor . . . the two alchemists would have had to kindly asked him to fuck off. Both of them wouldn't have found any piece of information more important than what had just come out of Dr. Joseph Antley's mouth.

"P-preg . . . _pregnant _women?" Ed attempted, his eyes like gilded saucers. "What? You . . . can't be serious."

"I wouldn't joke about something like this, Edward," Antley said softly, letting his sympathetic, hazel eyes fall upon the blonde's stunned face.

"So," muttered the colonel, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth. "What you're saying is that . . . Fullmetal is . . ."

"Yes. He's pregnant."

And, for the fourth time in five weeks, Edward Elric's world tilted off its axis.

* * *

**(sighs) Another chapter down. Yay! So, yeah. Incase you didn't catch it in the summary or in all the warnings in chapter one, congratulations: You are now knee-deep in an Mpreg! Aahhhh! No escape, now! (laughs)**


	6. Equivalent Exchange

**First off, this chapter is dedicated to ****Larania Drake****, who gave me wonderful fanart (and the link can be found in my account . . . OMFG! I have **_**FANART**_**!) and gave me a kick in the butt to get me started again. It is also dedicated to her because she just turned 25 on Sunday, so everyone wish her a big happy (belated) birthday! And it's also dedicated to the other half of BMF, Nana, who just graduated from high school! Yay! Go Nana! (And congrats to all the other grads out there).**

**Now, for my excuse for the not-so-fast update: I was caught up in the end-of-the-year-being-an-art-major-SUCKS-I-have-so-much-crap-to-do-pandemonium. After I finished with that, I wanted to get started on the new chapter, but the last chapter was bothering me so much, I had to go back and cure it of its suckiness (goreaditagain!) . . . So then, of course, like the goober I am, I also had to go and fix all the **_**other**_** chapters. (sighs) After that, I thought I could get started again, but then my grandfather got admitted to the hospital with chemo/heart attack/pneumonia/high fever/really high heart rate and really low BP . . . He's doing better and is home now though, so . . .**

**Without further ado, here's chapter six!**

**Disclaimer: I couldn't even afford to take my Mom to see 'The DaVinci Code' for Mother's Day . . . She had to pay. (hangs head sadly) **

* * *

_"The worst form of inequality is to try to make unequal things equal."_

_-_Aristotle

* * *

**Chapter VI: Equivalent Exchange**

Edward pressed his face against the glass of the town car's passenger side window, wishing more than anything that he could just alchemize himself right through the metal, glass, and plastic and fall out onto the street.

The Bastard was beside him, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel and his obsidian eyes glued to the road before them; however, Ed barely noticed his presence. The blonde could feel the utter chaos within his own being, the beast known as Balagan unraveling his innards and tearing at his lungs and heart, yet, he could hardly comprehend it. The muted hum of the engine and gentle rocking of the car, coupled with the pure shock of it all, was lulling his sleep-deprived mind into a state of near cathartic numbness. Where there should have been sharp, stabbing pain, there was only a dull ache.

Ed was scared; he wasn't ashamed to admit that. The fact that he supposedly numb to this new horror didn't make it any less true. He was scared and angry and he wanted to cry. And that fact just made him even more terrified.

"_It's all right, Brother,"_ Alphonse's gentle voice suddenly cut into the foggy murk of his conscious_. "You'll be okay. You aren't dying, right? You aren't going to die and that's what we should be focusing on right now. You're going to be just fine, Brother. I promise. I won't let anything bad happen to you."_

The voice was convincing and Ed wanted desperately to believe him. Sighing quietly, the blonde allowed his eyes to slip shut then, letting his brother's soft, simple tones soothe the turmoil in his heart and desperately willing himself to believe that the cool glass beneath his cheek was metal armour.

* * *

"_You . . . are _fucking_ crazy."_

_Edward's strained voice cut through the shocked silence within the office, crashing down upon the heads of its other occupants like a lead weight. He fixed the doctor with his steely glare and Antley, to his credit, did not flinch under the weight of his fiery gaze. Instead, the doctor merely raised one sandy brow and let his mouth pull down at the corners._

"_Edward," he said evenly. "I know that this is hard to believe. I _know_ that and you have to trust that I do. I didn't believe it myself at first, but the evidence shows—"_

"_What _evidence_ do you have other than squiggly lines on paper?" Ed shrieked and leapt from his seat, causing the colonel to take an involuntary step backwards. Antley leant back in his chair, unimpressed with the posturing, but shifting away from his fuming patient nonetheless. "Anyone can do that! That's not proof! Oh, and since you _obviously_ didn't learn in those fancy schools you went to and got all these pretty degrees in—" Edward indicated the framed certificates that hung on the cream walls of Antley's office with a wild sweep of his automail arm. "—I'll explain it to you again; the fundamental difference between boys and girls: Boys. Can't. Get. Pregnant. That's _my_ proof! That's _my _evidence! Boys can't get pregnant and _I_ can't get pregnant! I am _not_ pregnant. And you are one _sick_ fuck to suggest that I am!"_

_The doctor sat, stone-faced in the wake of the storm that was Edward Elric, allowing the boy to spit his venom and ferocity out at him without an argument. The blonde stood before him, panting and looking drained and ill, but still with that same burning intensity in his wild eyes. If Antley had been any less of a man (any less of a _doctor_), then he might have backed down from this very special patient. Hell, if he had been one _iota _less of a man, he might have simply crawled under his desk and cried. However, he was better (stronger) than that, so he stood and thrust his chest forward and leveled Edward with a gaze that was both keen and wise, where the blonde's was petulant._

"_Edward, if you give me a chance to explain everything I guarantee you that I can give you the proof that you want," he stated gently, truly unphased by the uproarious shout-fest that his patient had just had. "I know that you're smart. I know that you can grasp what I'm trying to tell you."_

"_Don't you _dare_ be condescending to me; I am not a child," the Elric grated out, clenching his fists and baring his teeth animalistically._

"_Well then _prove_ that," said Antley almost pleadingly. "Prove that by hearing me out. I know that this is scary. It would be scary for _any_ teenager, but you are not just _any_ teenager and I want to help you, Edward. I want to help you, so please . . . just listen. For now, that's all I'm asking."_

_The alchemist shifted slowly from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands as he struggled to steady his breathing. Antley watched the teen's nostrils flare and his lips press into an almost imperceptible line._

"_All right," Ed quietly snarled, his whole body trembling as though the very effort to say those two words made him ill._

_The sandy-haired man across the desk from him gave a small nod and echoed, "All right." With that, he settled back into his chair and looked up expectantly at Edward, waiting for him to do the same. Ed, however, seemed _most_ comfortable standing up. So Antley cleared his throat and began. "All right, Edward. You do understand the way hormones work, right?"_

_After a short moment, the blonde tilted his head to one side and admitted, "N-not really."_

"_Okay," the doctor answered and then swallowed thickly. "The most _basic_ explanation that I can give you is that a hormone is a sort of chemical 'messenger' between cells or groups of cells. Their function is to serve as a signal to the target cells and their action is determined both by the . . . pattern of secretion and by the signal transduction of the receiving tissue."_

_Antley paused at that moment, because both Edward and Mustang were giving him blank stares. Sighing heavily, he slumped back in his seat and adjusted his glasses. "Signal transduction is . . . any process by which a cell converts one type of signal or stimulus into another. Understand?"_

"_Kinda," affirmed Edward, furrowing his brow. The doctor glanced over at the colonel, who shrugged uselessly. _

_Bringing his hazel eyes back to Edward, he continued with his explanation. "Now, hormone actions vary widely. They can include the stimulation or inhibition of growth, the induction or suppression of apoptosis—that's the medical term for programmed cell death. They include the activation or inhibition of the immune system, regulating metabolism, and preparation for a new activity—kind of like you get a shot of adrenaline when preparing to fight or run; that's the 'fight-or-flight' response. They also prepare you for a new phase of life: puberty and _pregnancy_. Like Mr. Mustang said, at your age, you will be midway through puberty, which is a time when hormones will be doing crazy things to your body. The deepening of your voice, hair growth, growth spurts—" Edward scoffed at this and rolled his golden eyes. "—as well as more __virilizing__ effects, but I'll leave that to the imagination. The point is that hormones are essential to the development of humans, they follow a set pattern, and they don't lie."_

_Edward crossed his arms huffily and turned his head to glare at the potted palm in the corner. "Is that supposed to be your proof, Doc? Hate to tell you, but that is some shitty evide—"_

"_No, Edward," he interrupted, sounding slightly exasperated. "That was just an explanation of hormones, as I stated before. My proof is . . . well, _you_."_

_The blonde looked back at his doctor. "Me?"_

"_Yes, you. Think about it carefully. You came to me because you were vomiting; you had been doing so for three weeks at the time; now it's four, correct?" Ed worked his jaw from side to side, and then nodded slowly. "Have you ever heard of something called morning sickness?"_

_The alchemist blinked. "Morning sickness?" he repeated._

_Antley nodded his head once—a sharp, quick movement—and went on to say, "Yes. Doctors can't pinpoint an exact reason why it happens, but we do know that morning sickness will affect almost 50 to 95 percent of pregnant women within the first month after conception. How soon did your illness begin after you had—"_

"_BAH-BAH-BAH!" Edward screeched abruptly and frantically windmilled his arms, his face turning an interesting shade of red. Antley stared bemusedly as the boy took on the look of an angry dandelion trying to take flight. After his arms had finally dropped back to his sides and he had stopped screaming, the blonde alchemist went truly crimson, mumbled something that sounded like "About a week," and then reached up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck._

_Antley tossed a glance over at the teen's commanding officer; Mustang, at Ed's little display, had turned away and was now staring determinedly at the opposite wall, a faint blush tingeing his alabaster cheeks. The doctor's eyes narrowed unperceivabley behind his glasses; however he said nothing to voice his rather unorthodox thoughts as he turned back to Edward. Time would tell the tale._

"_A week, you said?" he asked the younger of the two men instead. "You fall prey to a horrendous stomach ailment, which is remarkably similar to morning sickness, almost a week after . . . Well, _after_," the doctor ended sharply, sparing Ed from another embarrassed spasm. The blush was still evident on the young man, but not nearly as prominent as it had been mere moments before, as he nodded shallowly. "And . . . that doesn't strike you as the least bit odd?"_

"_No," he replied immediately. "It's just a coincidence!"_

"_Coincidence?" Antley looked to the side and nodded to himself, before slowly getting to his feet; Edward followed him with his golden eyes as the man circled around to the front of his desk and then leant back against it, arms folded loosely across his chest in a stance of wary relaxation. "Is it also a coincidence that the other symptoms that you described to me as having—the aching muscles, the flu-like symptoms, the 'off' feeling you told me about—are also _all_ things that women go through in the early stages of pregnancy?"_

_Antley saw the falter of Edward's resolve on his face. It was just a slight twitch—the pulling down of a corner of his mouth, the furrowing of his golden brows—but, as a doctor, Antley recognized the subtle change. _

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

_Joseph Antley had been a general practitioner for nearly fifteen years—for almost as long as Edward had been alive. Most of that time had been spent working in private clinics, away from the hustle and bustle of Central's big hospitals. So, he wasn't subject to the look very often; however, that didn't mean that Antley himself wasn't well-versed in the five stages of grief._

_He knew._

_It was a standard coping mechanism in humans. And, just like everything else in the doctor's life, it followed a set pattern. As sure as the sun would rise over Xing every morning and set beyond the horizon of Creata each night, so too did the five stages of grief operate. It was criterial. The norm._

_However, Antley could tell, even from his short association with the blonde, that Edward Elric was far from 'the norm.' And the fact that, when he had met Edward, the teenager had already been waist-deep into the Five Stages in regards to his brother's sudden death, was a big concern for the doctor._

"_Yes!" the alchemist answered heatedly, his voice breaking in the depths of his throat and bursting through the doctor's reverie. "Of course it's a coincidence!"_

_Antley sighed. "The nurse weighed you when you came in, correct?" he asked._

_Edward blinked and his frown deepened, but he stated, "Yeah, so?"_

"_And how much did you weigh?"_

"_A-about . . ." There was an embarrassed shrug and a mumbled, ". . . one-ninety."_

_The sandy-haired doctor tilted his head to one side and adjusted his glasses yet again. "No reason to be self-conscious, Edward. You _are_ a bit heavier for someone of your age and stature, but you are also very well-built. Plus, you have automail."_

_Ed shrugged one shoulder and scratched at his cheek absently, shifting back and forth on his feet. "Yeah, I guess."_

_Antley smiled softly and continued, "Now, you also remember that you were weighed the first time that you came in, correct?" A nod was his answer. "Then you weighed . . . one-hundred-and-eighty-seven pounds. That means that you _gained_ three pounds. You gained three pounds in one week, despite that fact that you have not been eating or sleeping well and have been vomiting constantly—"_

"_Shut up."_

_Edward's voice cracked like a knout through the doctor's patient explanation, bringing it to a sudden halt as Antley snapped his mouth shut. The boy's head was bowed before him, his fringe obscuring his features and his red-clad shoulders trembling._

"_You just . . ." Blonde hair flew as Ed snapped his face up to meet his doctor's, his aureate eyes brimming with angry tears. "Just shut up! I don't believe you! It doesn't matter what you say or what _proof_ you have! I'm not pregnant; get that through your thick head! I'm _not_!"_

"_Edward," Antley tried softly._

"_NO! Fuck you! I trusted you! I trusted you, damnit! I trusted that you would do what was best for me, but obviously you just see this as some big joke! So fuck you! _Fuck you!_"_

_And with that, Edward turned on his booted heel and stormed away, leaving his startled doctor blinking stupidly in his wake. The blonde made to go for the door; however, as he shoved past his commanding officer, his flesh arm was snagged by the older man. "Fullmetal, wait—"_

_Edward whirled on him. "And fuck you, too Mustang! Fuck you for playing along with this bastard's sick game and fuck you for fucking me!"_

_The teen ripped his arm out of the colonel's grasp and spun away. He was at the door and through it, slamming it in his wake before Mustang could even remember how to breathe. _

* * *

_Roy Mustang watched the door slam shut soundly behind his subordinate, the tail of his trademark coat barely avoiding getting caught, and he struggled to find the strength to draw in air. The Flame worked his throat and clenched his fists and just prayed that the ringing in his ears would stop._

"_Well," came the ragged voice of Dr. Antley. "He took that about as well as I expected him to."_

_The dark-haired man let his eyes slip shut and turned slowly on the spot to face the doctor. The man who had just changed both his and Edward's lives exponentially. The man who had just ruined the last of the Elrics for good._

No . . . That was me.

"_Please tell me," the colonel rasped, feeling suddenly weak in the knees, "that Ed was right. That this is all some kind of . . . of sick joke. If it is, I swear to God, you—"_

"_It's not a joke, Mr. Mustang," the man interjected._

_Roy opened his eyes and Antley met his gaze._

"_I swear."_

_There was a moment of tense silence, both men weighing their opponent carefully; the alchemist put on his best poker face and leveled the doctor with his obsidian glare—taking in the man's pale, clammy appearance, the way he slumped back against the desk, and the slight tremor in his tightly clasped hands—before he finally sighed and nodded gently. "All right then . . . How?"_

_Antley regarded him with tired eyes for a long moment, then heaved out a heavy breath as well and shoved his hands down into the depths of his coat pockets. Rolling his shoulders back, the doctor squared his jaw and said most astutely, "I don't know."_

_Onyx eyes narrowed and thin, pale lips pursed. "You don't _know_?" Roy asked incredulously, his brows climbing the smooth slope of his forehead and disappearing into his fringe._

_The sandy-haired man lowered his hazel orbs and shook his head. "No. I have no idea how or why Edward is pregnant. I am only telling you that he is. And I'm sorry that I had to drop this onto both of you without . . . without an explanation as to _why_. I just . . ." Antley rubbed at the side of his face and blinked rapidly. "I just hoped that he would take it better than this."_

Well, how did you _expect_ him to take it?_ thought the colonel bitterly, but said nothing._

"_I don't know _why_ I thought that," stated the doctor for him in a most bemused voice and sat up straighter, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is something that most teenage _girls_ have a hard time accepting. I don't know why I thought a teenage boy would have an easier time of it. He just . . . he seemed very mature for his age and I thought . . ."_

_The doctor gave a helpless shrug and looked up at Roy. The corners of the Flame's mouth pulled down a bit and he nodded in affirmation, then said, "Edward is an adult in a child's body. He's been through a lot in his short years . . . more than most people can say they've experienced in their entire lifetimes. It's easy to forget that he's only sixteen."_

_There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, in which the doctor fixed him with his unwavering gaze. Roy suddenly felt like a trapped animal. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and an involuntary shudder passed through him._

_Finally, Antley cleared his throat and stated, "I take it that you forgot?"_

_The heebie-jeebies not fully diminished, Roy Mustang blinked and quirked an eyebrow. "What?"_

_Antley looked away for a moment and shrugged one shoulder absently; bringing deep hazel back up to once again meet black, he stated, "Edward came to me one week ago, complaining of stomach problems, which I've explained to you before. When I suggested that the vomiting may be a psychological response to his younger brother's death—" Roy's heart twisted painfully. "—he . . . offered up the somewhat guarded information of his one night stand with someone who was . . . let's say _morally loose_. He didn't say 'girl', but I just assumed . . . That _was_ until I got these tests results back, saying that young Mr. Elric was pregnant. Then, my theory changed." He looked at Roy quite pointedly and the colonel found that he was suddenly too stunned to deny anything. All the excuses fled his brain and, though he grasped at them helplessly, all he could manage to do was simply open and close his mouth over and over again. _

_Antley watched with no small amount of amusement as the colonel went white as virgin snow and did his best impersonation of a goldfish. He turned his face away with a sigh and said matter-of-factly, "I guess that proves my theory correct." _

Well . . . that and Edward's comment before he left_, the doctor thought wryly. "Don't worry, Mr. Mustang," he said to the edge of his desktop as he ran a finger along it, listening to the colonel make half-strangled sounds as he struggled to speak. "Despite the fact that I don't . . . _approve_ of what you did . . . I also am not going to suggest that I know just _why_ you did it. And I'm fairly good at reading people. Edward seems very headstrong and sensible . . . and you seem like a very honourable man, so . . ."_

_Antley suddenly trailed off and cleared his throat awkwardly, looking back at the room's other dark-haired occupant. "Besides, I think that I've disrupted your life enough for one day."_

_The steely glint of hostility in the colonel's eyes dissipated immediately at these words and, to Antley, the man looked like he was about to melt into a puddle of appreciation on the linoleum floor of his office. "Thank you," Mustang breathed, his mouth pulling up into a grateful smile. "Thank you. What happened between me and Edward is . . ." The Flame Alchemist paused, neutralizing his features and rubbing at the crown of his head. ". . . complicated. I'll talk to him and we'll work through it because, honestly, I don't think I could forgive myself if I didn't try to make things right between us. You see, five years ago, I made a promise to myself . . . and even while trying to keep that promise, I broke it with Edward and . . . now I have to redeem myself. So I thank you . . . for giving me that chance, Dr. Antley."_

_The sandy-haired man pursed his lips to one side and then smiled unevenly. "Don't mistake my . . . er, _philanthropy_, Mr. Mustang," he stated. The alchemist quirked a delicate eyebrow at this remark, but said nothing. "I'm not keeping silent for you, exactly. I'm doing it for my patient. Though he may be mad at you, he does need you—both as his commanding officer and the . . . father of his child—"_

_Antley paused and both men considered each other for a moment; they simultaneously decided that what had just been said sounded very odd and they both gave an involuntary shudder. Only then did Antley continue. "He needs you . . . and _I_ need you to speak to him for me. I need him to trust me if we're all going to see this pregnancy through to term."_

_The doctor then abruptly placed his palms against the desktop on either side of him, checked over his shoulder once to be sure there were no obstacles in his path, and then hopped up to sit on the edge of his desk._

_Roy lifted his brows in amusement, watching as the physician wiggled back and forth, situating himself, and then turned his attention back to the alchemist; the Flame shook his head, shoved his gloved hands down into his trench pockets, and crossed the room to examine one of the framed diplomas on the wall. "Hate to tell you this, Doc," he said cynically, reaching up to run one finger along the frame where glass met wood, "but he doesn't even trust _me_ right now."_

"_I know he doesn't," said the doctor as he clasped his hands between his knees and twiddled his thumbs. "His little display earlier spoke volumes. But, you did say earlier that you would talk to him. I understand that he's upset right now, but surely he will eventually listen to rea—"_

"_No, you don't understand," the dark-haired alchemist interjected with a small chuckle. Tapping the glass of the framed certificate once with two gloved fingers, he turned back to face the doctor, a sad smile etched into his features. "Edward Elric's trust is a fickle thing," the man explained. "He doesn't give it easily and once you break it . . . it's hard to get it back. In fact, I don't know of anyone who he ever completely trusted except for Alphonse. His brother."_

_Antley regarded the colonel for a short moment with darkened eyes, before nodding his understanding. "I'm merely asking for you to try," he pleaded softly. "He can't do this alone."_

_Roy Mustang gently frowned and considered asking the doctor whether or not Edward could do it at _all_; however, he thought it best to stave his curiosity for now. Instead, he bowed his head and made his way across the office to stand near the sandy-haired man. Antley watched him curiously over the rims of his glasses, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, tenting his fingers and resting his mouth against them. The Flame stopped before the doctor and, after a moment of uncomfortable silence as he worked his throat, Roy inquired, "So you really have no idea how Fullmetal might have gotten . . . y'know . . . ?"_

"_A womb?" Antley helpfully provided, his words muffled by his fingers._

_The alchemist nodded._

_Dr. Antley shrugged after a minute of quiet contemplation and pushed himself back into a proper sitting position. "For as long as there has been both medicine and alchemy," he explained, "so too have doctors and alchemists been bumping heads with each other." To emphasize his point, the doctor made fists of both his hands and then, lifting them up to where the tops of his fingers and knuckles were facing each other, he gently struck them together. "You see," Antley added, bringing his hands back down to rest on either side of his thighs, "despite the fact that both fields call science their mother, the two siblings really don't get along. Doctors hate alchemy because they don't understand it. And alchemists _certainly_ don't understand medicine."_

"_Antley," Mustang interrupted the speech, an edge of agitation to his voice. "What does this have to do with anything? Is there a point to this?"_

"_The _point_, Mr. Mustang," Antley countered, reaching up to adjust his glasses tensely and sounding equally annoyed that he had been interrupted, "is that, when it comes to alchemy, doctors really don't know what kind of adverse effects it has on the human body."_

_Roy's smooth brow furrowed in confusion and he blinked several times, before he finally inquired, "Adverse effects?"_

_Removing his wire-framed glasses and rubbing at his eyes with one hand, Antley nodded slowly. "Yes. Does anyone really know what happens to a person when they perform alchemy? Sure, people can assume and deduce, but no alchemist or doctor can ever know whether or not your science—your 'deconstruction-reconstruction'—has any negative effects on its user. Now Edward . . . Edward's alchemy is very unique, is it not?"_

_The colonel swallowed thickly and nodded in single, stiff motion. "Yes. He's able to use alchemy without circles."_

"_Without circles?" the sandy-haired GP repeated, looking curiously confused._

"_Yes," Roy affirmed, turning away once again to walk over and study one of the trinkets on the nearby bookshelf. "He explained it to me once. I believe that, the way he described it, he pictures a particular circle in his mind and then he claps his hands to activate the circle, basically making his own body into the array. Then he forces his will into the object he is transmuting and . . . well, as you said 'deconstruction-reconstruction'."_

"_You said he makes his _body_ into a circle?" Antley asked in astonishment, sitting up stock-straight and pushing his glasses back on._

_Mustang nodded a bit and answered, "That's what he told me. He could probably explain it in much more intricate detail than I currently am, but . . . that's the gist of his alchemy." Looking back over his shoulder at the doctor, Roy Mustang furrowed his brow. "Do you think that might be the cause of his . . . pregnancy?"_

_Antley was silent for a long time, looking extremely thoughtful; his hazel eyes were slightly glazed and his fingers beat a faint pattern along the lip of the desktop. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he sighed and stated, "I can't be sure, but I'm willing to bet anything that it had something to do with it. After all, you confirmed that Edward's ability is unique . . . and how many pregnant men do you know?"_

_The Flame said nothing, but inclined his head in an affirmative gesture, then looked to the side. The doctor was right. It was obvious that alchemy somehow played into the Fullmetal's mysteriously gravid condition. However, Roy doubted that Edward's ability to do alchemy without circles had anything to do with it._

_Of course, how was the good doctor to know that the young alchemist had partaken in the most taboo of alchemic rituals?_

_How was he to know that Edward had performed a human transmutation? _

* * *

_Antley had been staring at an attrition on the top of one of his black oxfords, when Mustang suddenly snapped, "Who else knows about this?" The doctor glanced up and was startled to discover that the colonel had crossed the distance between them in a short two seconds._

"_W-what?"_

"_I said," Mustang gritted out, leaning in and bearing his teeth. "'Who else knows about this?'"_

_Antley blinked a few times—his initial shock slowly ebbing away, only to be quickly replaced with surprise over the abrupt change in the alchemist's behavior—and leant away. "N-no one," he finally managed to stutter out. "The . . . the samples of Edward's blood that I sent away were to be tested for different pathogens and changes in his hormones . . . However, the samples themselves were not marked with Edward's name or even his gender. Just a number—the number that only _I_ had the corresponding name to. So, when the initial tests came back, saying that the patient was pregnant, the lab techs thought nothing of it. They thought that it was just a woman. Of course, when I got the results, I thought that there had been some kind of mistake in the hospital lab, so I sent them back for a retest. They called and said that the results were exactly the same; I didn't say anything that would imply that my patient was not capable of getting . . . erm, 'knocked up' . . . and went down to observe a third test myself—much to the displease of the lab techs, I might add. As expected, the results were identical to the first two. That's when I decided it best to call you and Edward. The two of you and I are the only ones who know, I promise."_

_Antley finished his long-winded explanation in a wild rush, nearly panting from the effort as he stared up with uncertain hazel eyes at the man before him; the colonel's own onyx orbs were narrowed even more than normal, stoic mask set firmly in place. Had the doctor been standing up, instead of sitting on his desk, the two men would have been close to the same height. Now, however, the alchemist towered above him and Antley understood why _this man_ was the one who the older officers saw as merciless._

_He had the eyes of a killer._

_But then, just as suddenly as they had shown themselves, those cold, hardened, _killer_ eyes shuttered behind the alchemist's admittedly well-constructed mask. Mustang's face quickly turned beseeching. _

"_Dr. Antley, you've already done so much to help us; I thank you for that, really I do. And I _know_ that this is asking a lot, but . . ." Roy Mustang paused to worry his bottom lip absently and Antley nearly gasped out loud at the desperation in those obsidian eyes. "Can you not . . .?" _

_The sandy-haired man blinked. "Tell anyone?" he asked, rather shocked by the question. The Flame Alchemist nodded very slowly, gingerly. Almost as if the action itself hurt to do._

_It was a lot to ask, Roy knew. _

_A lot to ask for a doctor to keep silent on something as phenomenal . . . as _monumental_ as a pregnancy where no pregnancy should exist—a pregnancy caused by alchemy. But Roy also knew (he knew well and good, because he himself had used it as a threat to keep Edward in line back when he was just a petulant child) that, if Antley were to go to anyone else in the military—a higher up or, God forbid, the fuhrer himself—then it would be the end of the Elric's life. They would drag him away to some lab for the duration of the pregnancy, performing test after mind-numbingly horrible test on him, like he was some kind of fucking animal._

I can't let that happen.

_Because, as disgusted as he felt with himself for sleeping with Ed—hell, for getting him _pregnant_—it wouldn't compare to the feeling of being the reason to have the boy locked away and experimented on; to have him suffer any more than he already had. No matter how selfish of a motive that was._

_So, Roy would beg. He would get down on his knees and beg and grovel if he had to; he would do whatever it took to convince the doctor not to go forward with the information that he had. Because he owed Edward at least that much. _

_The colonel swallowed and held his breath and waited._

"_I am wounded."_

_Roy snapped his head up from its bowed position and felt his breath leave him in a wet rush, knocked for six by the mere expression on Antley's face as he spoke:_

"_Do you really think that little of me? Please, Mr. Mustang. If I was in this life for glory, then I would be working at one of Central's major hospitals and not this little clinic. I care about my _patients_ . . . not glory or fame. I'll do what's best for _Edward_, you can trust me on that." There was true sincerity in the doctor's hazel eyes and his smile was genuine._

_And for the first time in a long time, Roy Mustang believed in angels. _

* * *

The town car rocked as one of its wheels dipped down into a pothole, jostling its two occupants. The driver's grip on the steering wheel tightened and he glanced over at his passenger warily.

The blonde had his eyes closed, his body lax and resting against the passenger side door; his face bumped gently against his window as the car moved. Roy Mustang sighed heavily and turned his gaze back to the road once again.

He honestly hadn't expected Edward to wait for him. The blonde had stormed out of the office, his head so full of steam that the colonel would have bet he could have floated home. However, when Roy had left Dr. Antley's office almost a full half-hour later—he remembered glancing at the clock over a blushing secretary's shoulder—and had meandered out to the car there had been Edward.

He was leaning back against the passenger side of the vehicle, his arms folded loosely over his stomach and his blonde bangs obscuring his lowered visage. Roy had approached the alchemist with caution, much like one might approach a strange dog, and felt absolutely sick with himself when he realized that, down in the depths of his pocket, he had unconsciously poised his fingers to snap.

"Fullmetal?" the dark-haired man had asked as he'd drawn nearer to the Elric, noting with a mix of distaste and mild consternation that whatever the blonde had had for lunch that day was now in a puddle on the sidewalk.

At the sound of his second name, Edward had raised his head to look up at his commanding officer; his face was tinged an unattractive shade of green and his golden eyes looked glassed over.

"What the hell took you so long, Colonel Bastard?" the dog growled weakly.

Roy had frowned and furrowed his brow. "I was busy covering our asses," he explained simply. "Now, not to encourage a long walk on your part, but I would have thought that you wouldn't want to ride back with me. You certainly didn't want to ride _here_ with me, after all."

The silence had stretched between the two alchemists, perforated at random intervals by a passing car or the whisper of wind through the trees before Edward had finally spoken:

"I was _gonna_ walk home. But then, I got out here and I started feeling sick and . . . Well, I wanted to throw up in your car, but the door was locked." Edward had paused to scowl at him, obviously not pleased that Roy had remembered to secure the vehicle. "After I puked, I really didn't feel like moving, so . . . just hurry up and take me back to the dorms." The blonde had considered him for a moment, before generously adding, "Bastard."

And then, he had spoken no more.

Now behind the wheel and halfway back to HQ, Roy sighed solemnly and turned onto Berkley Drive. He could see the scattered tops of trees beyond the roofs of buildings and houses; they were nearing the park.

"_What happened between me and Edward is . . . complicated. I'll talk to him and we'll work through it because, honestly, I don't think I could forgive myself if I didn't try to make things right between us."_

"Edward," the colonel stated suddenly, being mindful of a group of children playing on the sidewalk off to his left. "We have to talk." Despite the teen's relaxed position, the Flame knew that his subordinate wasn't asleep. Edward would never fall asleep in front of him, not matter how tired, sick, or . . . _pregnant_ he was; to do so, all of his defenses would be down—it was a very open, _trusting_ position.

And the Fullmetal did not trust the Flame.

Obsidian eyes darted away from the road for a quick second to see that, as he had expected, Edward's heavy eyelids had pulled up half-mast and the boy was now glowering at him. "There's nothing to talk about," Ed protested quietly, sounding small, lost, and broken. Roy worked his throat as the blonde went back to looking out of his window. "I'm not pregnant."

"And I'm not a doctor," the colonel stated. "However, I must say that the evidence refutes your claim. But, that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk about . . . that night."

Even though he wasn't looking directly at him, Roy felt the Fullmetal tense beside him and shift more towards his door. _No, please Edward. Don't close up on me._

"I have nothing to say to you about that, either."

_Please don't shut me out._

"You don't have to talk," the older alchemist placated. "Just listen."

At a four-way-stop, Roy chanced a look over; Edward's reflection was scowling at him in the window, bottom lip pressed forward in a telltale pout and his flaxen eyebrows drawn down into a 'V'.

Roy pressed the accelerator and made the car move again. _Please . . . give me a chance._

"Why should I?" the reflection said.

_. . . I don't know._

The minutes of heated silence stretched, Edward staring out of his window and Roy going back and forth between glaring at the road before him and glaring at the back of the blonde head to his right. Finally, as they rounded a corner onto Huckston Blvd., the colonel decided that he'd had enough.

* * *

Mustang slammed on the brakes.

Tires shrieked forlornly as they tried to clutch to stone and Edward was pitched violently forward, his face spared from its confrontation with the dashboard only by his seatbelt. Giving his blonde head a shake, the alchemist whipped around to glare heatedly at his commanding officer. "What the hell was that for?" he yelled.

But the colonel was already putting the machine into park and killing the engine, ignoring the protests of angry horns behind him. Folding his fingers neatly around the keys, he leant back in his seat and crossed his arms, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead. Edward stared at him in incredulity for the longest moment, then snorted and made for the buckle on his seatbelt.

"Fine, I can walk the rest of the way home, you bastard."

The pyrotex-gloved hand shot out of seemingly nowhere and caught the blonde by his wrist, stopping any further attempt to undo his safety belt. The startled teenager stared down at the fire array sewn onto the back of the glove for the longest moment, trying to concentrate on that, instead of the feeling of warm pressure against his skin; finally snapping his aureate eyes up to Roy's face, he snarled, "Let me go, Mustang."

"Talk to me," the man countered coolly, not relaxing his grip, lest Edward attempt to make another escape.

Ed bore his teeth at the older man, a feral growl emanating from the back of his throat. "_No!_ Damnit, Mustang! I said to let go of me, goddammit!"

Instead of listening, or even looking intimidated by the nefarious display, the colonel merely tightened his grip on Ed's flesh wrist, prying the clawing digits away from the buckle, and leant in. "We _need _to talk about it, Edward. I know that you don't want to face up to it right now, because it's painful and for that I am _sorry_. I'm sorry that I completely screwed up your life and I'm _sorry_ that Alphonse isn't here to take some of this away. But Edward, you are _pregnant_—" Edward thrashed and shook his head violently. "—and that is not something that is going to go away and it's not something that you can do on your own—"

Ed's automail hand suddenly scrambled across his door, his fingers blindly trying to find the handle, uncaring that his body was still held to the seat by the safety harness; in a flash, the Flame had reached past the blonde and seized that limb as well, pulling it back and locking it next to its flesh partner.

"_Edward!_ I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I did this to you! You have to believe me when I tell you that I did not mean for what happened to happen, please! I only wanted to comfort you and I'm sorry that it went as far as it did! I'm sor—"

"_Stop it!_ Just _stop!_" the Fullmetal shouted at the top of his well-developed lungs into Roy's face. "Stop apologizing, you _bastard!_ You might not remember, but you weren't the _only_ one there that night, so just _stop!_ Just . . . shut up! Do you need me to say it, is that it? You need me to say it, so you won't have a guilty conscience? _Fine!_ You didn't have an _unwilling_ partner, you asshole!"

Edward watched as shock flooded the colonel's pale face and, just for a moment, he felt the iron grip around his wrists falter and slacken. Not one to waste an opportunity, the teen took his chance and wretched his hands away before Mustang could react. And then, on pure instinct, Edward brought his freed hands together.

He _clapped_.

* * *

Roy Mustang felt his heart bottom out at the sound.

Almost as infamous as his own _snap_ was, the all too familiar and now, somehow terrifying slap of automail against flesh enveloped the car's suddenly cramped interior. Dazzling blue flashed in his mind's eye for one brief moment, then faded and the Flame hurled himself away from his passenger.

Edward's face was contorted in hundreds of conflicting emotions, his teeth once again bared like an animal caught in a trap, and the colonel was scrambling backwards, attempting to claw his way through his door, trying to escape death even as he tried to commit accidental suicide with his seatbelt. He heard the blonde scream (_anguish, pain, sorrow, terror; God, it's all there_), saw the flash of transformed steel (_eyes clamped firmly shut, I don't want to see it coming, just give me that, please; let me be blind to Death_) and he brought up his hands in an unconscious effort to protect his face (_still gloved; ready, willing, but not able, I can't take another Elric's life_) and then . . .

Pain.

* * *

Edward Elric opened his eyes.

Red.

The philosopher's stone, Al's blood seal, a scarred man's eyes, blood red . . . _blood red_ stained Ed's vision and he grappled for control with his already feeble stomach. His mind helplessly fled back in time, to a dark night and pain and terror and that _thing_ that wasn't his mother . . . to a deranged man who was so caught up in what had once been that he couldn't see the perfect flower that was right before his eyes . . . to a monster that had used his own family for his gain, only to lose everything in the end . . . to a homunculus who was a killer and a foe, but then a blade through its chest and it was not . . . Edward's mind betrayed him and he saw the killer in him.

He saw blood.

"Argh . . ."

Edward suddenly blinked and pulled back, realizing only then that he had actually had his eyes pressed up against his own sleeve. His face turned slowly as the blonde's golden orbs traveled up the length of his automail arm, over the intricate joints of his wrist and up the back of his hand, and stopping on the long, ivory fingers that were now wrapped around his fist.

Mustang's eyes were firmly shut, his mouth pulled back in a grimace of expectancy; his hand twitched and trembled around the younger alchemist's, his muscles and tendons trying to cope with the bones that had obviously been broken when he'd caught the fist that was meant for his face.

He was alive.

Edward let out a breath he hadn't realize he was holding.

The blonde swallowed and gingerly drew his outstretched automail limb away from his commanding officer; Roy's hand convulsed suddenly with the loss of support and his onyx eyes shot open.

"_Shit!_" he screeched, instinctively clutching his damaged hand to his chest and panting painfully. As the injured man grasped his own wrist and gritted his teeth against the pain, Edward sank back to his own seat, listening to the moans of anguish from next to him and the sounds of the outraged drivers behind them . . . and all he could do was be grateful.

_I didn't kill him._

_I wanted to . . . but I didn't want to._

_He's alive._

_I didn't kill him._

_I didn't kill him._

_. . . Why didn't I kill him?_

Edward shot out of his seat and looked down at his open palms with wide eyes. He had clapped. He had _clapped_ and closed his eyes and he had subconsciously forced the steel into a point, just like always. He had done it so often that he no longer had to think about it; to him, it was the same as blinking or breathing. It took no effort. So why . . . ?

For the second time in five minutes, the Fullmetal brought his hands together and made to transmute his automail and for the second time in five minutes, Roy Mustang nearly jumped out of his skin. "Fullmetal, what the _hell_ was that?" he bellowed at his subordinate in fury. "You just _struck_ your commanding officer! I thought that you were going to _kill_ me! If I was any other officer—"

But Edward wasn't listening.

He was staring down in disbelief at his right arm. An arm that did _not_ have a muted spear jutting from the forearm and past the wrist and hand; an arm that could _not_ cut and stab and slice and gut. An arm that, as far as automail went, was normal.

Panic flooded the alchemist's veins and he tried again, clapping his palms together so that it hurt and then slamming them down against the dashboard of the car. He focused—ignoring Roy's startled expression and the tap of an annoyed driver against his window—drawing on all of his energy and concentration to make a circle within himself and force a change onto the plastic and wood and metal before him.

Nothing.

No flash of light.

No fizzle or whirl of alchemic energy.

No shifting of matter.

No transmutation.

No circles. No alchemy.

Just a boy with his hands pressed up against the dashboard of a military car.

Just a terrified, sixteen-year-old, pregnant boy who had tried to get his brother's soul back, but had gotten a womb instead. He had gotten a fucking _womb_ and, as dictated by the laws of alchemy, he had also given something up.

It was only then that Edward Elric realized _exactly_ what that something was.

* * *

**Woo, did Edward have a potty-mouth in this chapter. I apologize to anyone he offended . . . (blinks) Okay. Now, does everyone understand what Ed lost? (nods) Good. If not, ask in a review and I'll explain it to you. I'll probably do that next chapter anyway, but . . . (waves arms) I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.**

_**Also**_**, I thought that, over the summer, I would have the time to get out two or three chapters. However . . . I now have a math class to take for summer school. It costs over 500 for one class, so my mother is **_**adamant**_** that I make a good grade on it. And that means that I will most definitely be focusing on that class . . . which also means less updates for y'all. I sincerely apologize, because you guys have no idea how badly I want to get to chapter 13 . . . and then to chapter 21 . . . (sighs) But I can't. (falls over)**

* * *


	7. To lose what makes you Special

**Hey, here's the next chapter! Aren't you excited?**

* * *

"_What makes something special is not just what you have to gain, but what you feel there is to lose."_

-Andre Agassi

* * *

**Chapter VII: To Lose what makes you Special **

Fuhrer Bradley watched through his one narrowed eye as two of his subordinates—one loyal to an almost sickening degree and the other merely troublesome—bowed in tandem and then made their exit together; the door gently clicked shut behind them and their dual footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, the muffled sound slowly dissipating until only silence remained.

Bradley, though a homunculus and therefore lacking the ability to find any true sense of comfort, could most certainly appreciate the simple lack of all sound. Though he could not find solace in it, like most people, the Sin admittedly preferred it over the mundane babble of soldiers, civilians, mindless officials, and his own family—of which he was forced to endure every day. After all, there was only so long one semi-immortal being could tolerate the idiotic musings of the human race without becoming sick of it. And Bradley had long-ago reached that point.

_However . . ._

The homunculus sighed softly and leant forward onto his ornate desktop, supporting himself on crossed arms. Lacing his fingers together delicately, he bowed his dark head in thought.

However, Bradley had just listened to Mustang and Hakuro relay some rather _interesting_ news to him, regarding the Fullmetal one; in fact, if the Fuhrer was being completely honest with himself, he had to say that the information the two seasoned officers had just handed him was one of the most perplexing and intriguing things he had heard in a long while, not to mention one of the most worrisome.

And so, with that in mind, Pride turned to his secretary—his homunculus sister—and, subduing the anxious feeling in his gut, softly commanded, "Call Master. Something went wrong."

"I wonder what's up with the Colonel."

At this comment, three heads lifted from their work and turned to regard the speaker with mild interest. Havoc was lounging backwards in his chair, tilting it as far back onto its rear legs as it would go without falling, and propping his feet up atop his own paperwork; he had an unlit cigarette in his mouth—thanks mostly to Lieutenant Hawkeye's new 'no-smoking-in-the-office-Havoc-if-you-want-to-damage-your-lungs-and-risk-your-health-then-do-it-on-your-own-time' rule—and was staring up at the ceiling in idle contemplation.

Fuery sat back and straightened his glasses, which had been sliding down his nose. "What do you mean, Lieutenant?"

The blonde man swiveled his bright blue eyes away from the amorphous watermark on the ceiling to observe the youngest of the four seated there. "You mean you haven't noticed?" he inquired around his toothpick after a moment.

At Fuery's tentative shake of the head, Havoc sighed and stated blandly, "Man, Fuery . . . for a genius, you sure are incredibly dense sometimes."

The dark-haired man huffed indignantly.

Breda took this moment to chime in with his thoughts, simply because he wanted to put his two cents out there, too. "I know what you mean," he said with a nod. "The Colonel's been acting kinda weird."

"Weird?" Fuery asked, looking over to the red-head seated across from Havoc.

"Yeah." Breda nodded and reached up to relieve a tickle beneath his nose. "Like . . . depressed and stuff. He's been down for the past few weeks. You really haven't noticed?"

Fuery rolled his dark eyes upwards in thought for several seconds, then shook his head and looked back to the larger man. "No, can't say I have."

Breda just frowned and shrugged mildly.

"The Colonel _is_ depressed." Fuery and Breda both turned their heads to Falman, who was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, as usual, stroking his chin in thought. "However, he also seems to be feeling guilt over something."

"Guilt?" Havoc inquired, lifting his head from its reclined position to look at the warrant officer. "What would he have to be guilty over?"

Breda seemed to consider something a moment, before he smirked, snapped his fingers, and replied, "Heh. Maybe he finally knocked some poor girl up."

Had Hawkeye been in the room, she might have put a stop to the conversation right then and there; however, seeing as how she was elsewhere in HQ, retrieving some more forms, Fuery was left only to pull a face and admonish, "How crude."

The heavyset man just chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. Havoc sighed and let his head fall back again. "Well, it would certainly explain why he's been acting so strangely," he admitted.

There was a moment of all-around silence, before Falman brought up a point: "What about Alphonse?"

All heads turned to him once again and Havoc frowned. "I didn't think that Alphonse could get pregnant."

Breda snorted a laugh into his hand, but the youngest officer there immediately snapped, "You know what he means," tossing a glare in his superior's direction; Havoc had the good sense to look sheepish.

Falman waited a brief moment before coughing softly into his hand and continuing. "I _meant_ that it may have been Alphonse's _death_ that has caused this . . . upheaval in the Colonel's general attitude. I mean, he sees both of the Elric boys as sons. I think he would have taken young Alphonse's passing rather hard, don't you?"

"Yeah," Havoc agreed slowly. "But . . . I dunno; it's seems to have gotten worse over these past few days."

Breda let go of a sound that resembled a chuckle, but was not one. "Well, he did bust up his hand all to hell and back last week. Think that might have something to do with it?"

The blonde man shrugged and rolled his cigarette to the corner of his mouth.

"Well, technically, it was _Ed_ that broke the Colonel's hand," Fuery corrected softly, leaning his side against the table.

Havoc suddenly pulled his feet off the table and sat up, the chair falling back onto all fours with a clatter; the three others there turned their attention to him. "That's another thing I've noticed," he said, pulling the cigarette from between his lips and resting it behind his ear. "Ed's been acting pretty strangely, too. I've never seen him like this. I mean, from what we've heard, he actually tried to _kill_ the Colonel."

Breda nodded soundly and sat back up as well. "Yeah. He probably would have succeeded, too, if his little alchemy thing would have worked right." The man then brought his hands together before him with a _clap_ to demonstrate Edward's rather unique technique.

Falman crossed his arms before him and inclined his head forward a bit. "It's highly unusual for Edward to want to do harm to anyone. I can't imagine what the Colonel must have said to provoke him into wanting to do something like that to him."

"You mean besides the obligatory short jokes?" Havoc asked sarcastically. Falman hummed in thought.

Fuery, ignoring Havoc's remark, had cocked a curious eyebrow at the previous statement and frowned. "What makes you think it's the Colonel's fault?" he asked the older man.

"Isn't it always?" Havoc and Breda chimed in unison, both grinning.

Rolling his eyes, the dark-haired technician sighed and stated solemnly, "The death of a family member can make people act very differently—and the fact that Ed was _there_ when it happened would make it all the harder for him. I mean, I'm not even that close to my brothers, but I don't know what I'd do if either of them were killed and I was standing there, mere feet from where it happened, not able to do anything."

The office went very silent then, each of the men shifting around awkwardly at Fuery's short, rather personal speech. Breda picked up his pen and began examining it carefully, as if it held all the secrets of life within it; Falman shuffled through his papers, tapping them on the table to straighten the stack, looking at them, but not _really_ looking at them; Havoc was patting himself down for a cigarette, when he seemed to remember that he already had one behind his ear and so, reclaimed it.

After it was once again in his mouth, he looked over at his officemate and said simply, "I didn't know you had brothers."

Fuery blinked and, feeling colour appearing in his cheeks—partly from his own rather uncharacteristic outburst and partly from the attention he was receiving for it—he went to respond to this; however, he was interrupted by the sound of quickly approaching footsteps. All eyes turned to the office door as it opened. In walked the Colonel, followed closely by General Hakuro.

The table gulped in unison.

Brushing past Mustang—who had the good sense to wait until the older man's back was to him to glower—the General swept into the office like he was the fuhrer himself. The foursome at the large table cautiously watched the higher-ranking man as he walked deeper into the room, eyeing their workspace with barely-concealed disdain. He then casually strolled over to the Colonel's desk and depositing himself behind it.

Mustang frowned and huffed silently, closing the door before turning to fully face into his office. He glanced over at the large table—and got a wicked little thrill at the similar expressions of hostility on the faces there, all of them directed at the current invasion of their personal space. Luckily for them, Hakuro was busy examining something on his desk and didn't catch the looks. Roy smirked and cleared his throat loudly—causing the four officers to jump a bit and swing their heads back down to their work—and made his way over to his blonde second lieutenant.

When a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, Havoc glanced up from his papers to meet the Colonel's eye. The dark-haired man frowned and leant in to whisper into Havoc's ear:

"Go get Edward and bring him here. Now."

* * *

Deep within the bowels of Central HQ's cramped military dorms, Edward Elric swallowed down the vomit-tinged bubble of anxiety that had welled up in the back of his throat and held his breath as his fingertips delicately pressed themselves to the array on his bedroom floor.

Yellow light pulsed and threw out graceful arcs of energy, jumping and casting dancing shadows into the corners and up onto the ceiling of the small bedroom. The array was simple, both in appearance and nature, and Ed didn't have to concentrate hard on morphing the shape of the hardwood planks beneath his hands into something more graceful and beautiful. The light eventually died down and the blonde youth sat back on his heels to examine his own work.

The small wooden horse sat innocently in the middle of the array; it looked slightly rough and worn, the finer details not as prominent as Ed would have liked them, and one of its legs looked warped somehow. It wasn't perfect by any means. But it was there.

Ed sighed in relief.

_I can still do alchemy._

"_I had faith in you, Brother,"_ Al's voice said from the depths of his conscience. Edward felt the corners of his mouth pull up a bit. _"Hm . . . so I guess that it's just your circle-less alchemy that was disrupted by the pregnancy."_

_I guess,_ the blonde replied tentatively after a pause, sitting back on his butt and rearranging his legs. It still felt very weird—even three days after his visit to Dr. Antley's office—to think of himself as _pregnant_; however, upon reflection, he really could come up with no other logical explanation as to why he felt and was acting the way he was.

Not that the pregnancy theory was _logical_ in any way, shape or form.

It was just the only theory that fit.

After he had been dropped off at HQ after that fateful doctor's visit—and Mustang had been taken to the infirmary to have his damaged hand tended to—Ed had shuffled back to his dorm room dejectedly, feeling confused, scared, and very much alone. Somehow or another, he had ended up before the mirror in his bathroom, staring at his own, pale reflection. It wasn't often that he actually took the time to examine himself in the mirror—when you lived like he did, basic hygiene was really the best you could do—and so, was very surprised when he had lifted up his shirt:

His abs were gone. His usually well-defined midriff was now soft to the touch and, upon turning to the side for a better examination, he had noted that his stomach was no longer flat. True, what was there couldn't really be considered a _bump_, per se . . . but Edward had still noticed the delicate swelling occurring there.

The blonde had taken it all in, then turned and vomited into the toilet.

_Besides,_ Ed thought to himself, leaning back on his hands to get a better view of his alchemic creation, _that's really the only way I can see losing my ability. I mean . . . I don't see why the Gate would have given me . . . _this_ . . . in exchange for the knowledge it gave me all those years ago. But, it's the only thing I can think of. What about you, Al? Any ideas?_

"_Hm . . ."_ his brother's voice echoed._ "Well, it could be that—"_

Alphonse was interrupted from his explanation, however, by the sound of light knocking on Ed's door. The blonde sat up and frowned, then called out that it was open. Havoc stuck his head into the room soon afterwards. "Hey, Chief." Edward sighed heavily and the blonde man flashed a small grin at him, before suddenly noticing the array on the bedroom floor. "Whatcha doin'?" he asked, indicating the circle with a sharp nod of his head.

The Elric didn't miss the nervous edge to the man's voice.

"Just seeing if I can still do alchemy," replied Ed tiredly, running his hands over his face. "What do you want?"

Havoc seemed to let out a relieved breath, his gentle smile reappearing on his face. "The Colonel wants to see you in the office," he mumbled, flinching somewhat as Ed glared out at him from between his fingers at the mention of their superior. "That's all," the second lieutenant insisted, holding up his hands defensively.

"And what's _he_ want?"

Ignoring the growl in Ed's voice, Havoc let his hands drop and shrugged one shoulder. "He didn't say," the man stated honestly. "He just told me to come and get you. Sounded pretty serious about it. Oh, and the General is there, too."

Edward let his hands drop down to the floor on either side of his thighs. "You mean Hakuro?"

At Havoc's slow nod, the younger blonde sighed and pushed himself up. Brushing past the older officer and out into the hallway, Ed felt the heavy weight of anxiety suddenly fold itself over his chest. Al's tinny voice spoke in his head. _"Well, this can't be good."_

Edward couldn't say he disagreed.

* * *

Roy had been silently examining an invisible attrition on his sleeve whenever the office door had swung open. He glanced up to watch as two of his blonde subordinates entered, the third and final already seated at her desk, working fastidiously.

The older of the blondes made his way back to his own seat at the large table and deposited himself there, picking up his pen, but not really beginning his work again; the second blonde—the younger and higher-ranking of the two—walked into the office and stopped only as he reached the desk. Keeping his golden eyes glued to the man currently occupying his direct superior's seat—ignoring the dark-haired alchemist hovering nearby completely—Edward Elric growled out, "What do you want?"

Snorting in derision, the General cast a glare at Mustang, before quickly turning his brown eyes back to the major before him. "I see that Colonel Mustang has taught you even _less_ in the area of courtesy and manners since my last visit here," he said simply.

A frown pulled at the corners of Edward's mouth and Roy had to bite his tongue to keep from giving the boy a stern warning. Taking a deep breath, the Fullmetal straightened his stance and visibly swallowed down his retort; instead, he opted for the rather shocking response of:

"If you'll pardon me saying so, General, I'm not feeling very well at the moment. I'd like to go back to my room as soon as possible, sir, so if we could make this quick?"

The voice that had come from the blonde teen was just so un-Edward that Roy felt compelled to ask the doppelganger what he'd done with the real thing. The Flame glanced over at the other office-members, only to find each of them looking at the alchemist's back in mute fascination.

Hakuro considered the Elric for a moment, before nodding curtly. "I suppose that can be arranged. I really only have one question for you—it's not even a question really. More of a request . . ."

Edward's brow furrowed in an unasked question.

The General smirked and stated, "I've been told that you can no longer do your trademark alchemy." Fiery, golden eyes flashed to meet black for the briefest of moments, then came back to rest on Hakuro. Roy Mustang dropped his gaze to the desktop—it may have only been for a mere second, but the Flame had been burnt, nonetheless.

"That said," Hakuro murmured, "I'd like for you to perform your alchemy for me."

Ed blinked and asked in exhaustion, "Sir . . . how can I perform alchemy that I _know_ that I can't do? I've practiced for the past three days. I can't do it anymore. What's the point?"

"Humour me," the older man stated simply, leaning forward to rest his elbows on Mustang's desk.

The blonde alchemist regarded him for a long while, the other members of the office looking on in mild confusion at the General's request, before he finally sighed and brought his hands up. There was a _clap_ and Edward pressed his palms flat against his superior's desktop. The General leaned away in alarm at his suddenly close proximity to the alchemist's hands.

However, his concern was all for naught. After a long minute of waiting—with no alchemic reaction—Ed finally withdrew his hands and let them fall limply to his sides once again. "See, sir? No alchemy. Well . . . no, that's not _entirely_ true." Both Roy and Hakuro leant in at this and Edward looked off to the side. "I can still do alchemy . . . but I need circles to perform it."

"Can you prove this?" the tawny-haired general asked, folding his hands before him and looking piercingly at the blonde.

The young alchemist sighed and withdrew the stick of chalk he had used earlier from his pocket to demonstrate. There was gentle scratching on the floor, a quick press of hands, an explosion of yellow light, and Mustang's smooth floor arched upwards into Ed's palm. He pulled the rough pike from the floor as though he were pulling a stick from the mud and held it out for the General to examine.

"Can I go back to my room now?" he inquired, his voice taking on an almost desperate edge to it.

Hakuro looked from the pike up to Ed's face, his hardened eyes glazing over a bit. With a sigh, he stood and turned to Roy, who snapped to attention. "Mustang, I'm going to give my report to the Fuhrer. You know what to do."

The Flame Alchemist hesitated for short moment, his stoic mask cracking and slipping off of his face; pushing it back on with a soldier's perseverance, he snapped a salute and barked, "Yessir."

The General nodded at him, then went around the desk—stopping momentarily to lay a hand on Edward's flesh shoulder—and then exited the office without another word. Ed watched him go, a frown forming on his face, before turning back to the desk. "What the hell was tha—"

Ed stopped.

The Colonel had once again taken up his seat behind his desk, looking authoritative and imposing, one of his hands outstretched towards the blonde, its palm up. Edward glanced from the gloved hand to the man's face, a scowl slowly forming as intuition kicked in and a feeling of dread implanted itself in his chest.

Roy Mustang heaved a breath. "Hand over your watch," he said, his voice low. "Edward Elric, as of right now, you are no longer the Fullmetal Alchemist."

* * *

_What?_

"_What?"_

"W-what?"

Edward stared with wide eyes across the desk at Mustang's serene expression, feeling numbness spreading across his body as the shock slowly kicked in. The office behind him had gone deathly silent at the man's pronouncement—even the quiet shuffling of papers had ceased.

"Your watch," Mustang repeated softly, moving his fingers ever so slightly for emphasis. This drew Ed's attention back to the outstretched hand—noting that it was the Bastard's undamaged one—and he suddenly wanted nothing more than the break each and every one of the man's fingers.

Instead, he settled on slamming his hands down onto the desktop, making damn sure he caused a dent with his automail; he took great satisfaction in the ever-so-slight flinch in Mustang's posture at the sound.

"You bastard," he grated out between clenched teeth. "You can't do this! How am I supposed to get the information I need without the military backing me up? How am I supposed to continue with my research? _How do I get Alphonse back?_"

Edward looked up into Mustang's dark eyes and immediately regretted it: because the man looked genuinely sorry and genuinely concerned.

Ed didn't want that.

He wanted Mustang to be wrong and for him to be the bad guy.

He wanted it to be _his _fucking fault!

"Please," Edward whispered desperately, hating himself even as the words left his mouth. "Please don't do this."

The Colonel's eyes softened. "I'm sorry," he said just as quietly. "I have no choice."

"But I can still do alchemy. You _saw_!"

Roy Mustang shook his head slowly. "But you lost what made you a state alchemist in the first place—you lost what made you a prodigy. What made you special."

_Everything._

Edward bowed his head, letting his bangs shelter his face from his superior's critical, _concerned_ gaze, and pushed himself away from the desk fiercely. The alchemist turned on his heel, his red coat slapping angrily at his leather-clad legs, as he marched heavily towards the door.

"Edward!"

The blonde stopped.

"Your watch."

He clenched his fists at his sides, feeling his own fingernails digging crescent moon-shaped impressions into the insides of his glove's fingers. "Fine," he hissed. His automail hand groped roughly at the chain attached to his belt, ripping it free, and yanking the silver pocketwatch from his deep pocket. "You want it? _Fine!_"

Spinning, Edward hurled the watch across the office towards Mustang, half-hoping it would strike the bastard squarely between the eyes; instead, the silver-plated missile went whizzing past the stunned man's head, missing by scant inches, and crashing through the window behind him.

As the entire office lost its breath in unison, Ed panted in fury, his teeth bared in rage.

"Why don't you go fetch it? Like a good dog."

And with that final statement, Edward Elric turned and exited the Colonel's office.

* * *

**Next chapter'll be up soon, I'm sure. **


	8. Truth and Decisions

**Disclaimer: See how effective these are? I didn't put any for the last several chapters and at no time did the lawyers come busting down my door. Effective shit right here.**

* * *

"_Wise men argue causes; fools decide them."_

-Anacharsis

* * *

**Chapter VIII: Truth and Decisions**

Emma Clark shifted the slight weight of her tray from her arms to a more precarious position against her hip, freeing up one hand to serve out coffee and desserts to the few poor souls stranded in the café during the storm that had blown up. She handed off a mug of black coffee and a large piece of homemade cherry pie to Burt Milston, a regular at The Dancing Goat these days. He smiled at her warmly, the skin around his mouth and eyes crinkling in an almost fatherly way, and asked her jokingly about the weather. To this, Emma just rolled her blue-green eyes.

"Shouldn't you be gettin' back to work, Burt," she admonished, "instead of hangin' around here all day?"

The heavy-set man tipped his hat back a tad and shrugged. "What's the use? The rain's flooded the open market. I knew there was no way in hell I was gonna sell anything today, so I just packed it all up in my truck and came here. Why not? I mean, the coffee's great . . . and the company's not bad, either," he teased.

Emma smacked Burt playfully with the towel she had hanging over her shoulder. "You better not let your _wife_ hear you sayin' anything like that or you'll be doin' more in your truck than sellin' vegetables out of it," she warned.

Burt chuckled good-naturedly. "Eh, what Evelyn don't know, don't hurt _me_. Besides, I'm not about to miss the last piece of Milly's world-famous cherry pie, especially when the things are about to go out of season." As the man picked up his fork to begin tucking into his beloved dessert, Emma sighed and moved on to the next table.

The two customers who occupied it were the only ones out of the handful of people in the coffee shop that she didn't recognize. They could have been a mother and son, what with the matching blonde hair and the reproving, yet caring way the woman was looking at the boy.

The woman was an officer, a lieutenant from the look of it—The Dancing Goat saw a lot of military types, being so close to Central Headquarters, and Emma had learned to tell a person's rank by their shoulder badges and stars. Her features were hard and refined, her mouth pulled down at the corners in a manner that spoke of no-nonsense ways and her sharp amber eyes were staring intently at the young man before her; however, despite the stiff, harsh façade that the blonde lieutenant was putting up, Emma could just make out the warmth emanating from her gaze.

And the boy . . . He looked absolutely _pitiful_.

The blonde pair had entered the café nearly a half-hour beforehand—Emma remembered looking up at the sound of the bell and glimpsing the clock above the door—and the teenager was _still_ soaked to the bone. His red jacket was sopped and dripping, forming a reflective puddle on the floor around his seat (Emma had sniffed distastefully at this when he had first sat down, just knowing that _she'd_ be the one to have to clean it up, but now she couldn't properly find it in her heart to care); his bangs were still heavy with rain and hanging down before his eyes, hiding them from the world. Emma felt her brows furrow—it wasn't only that the kid looked like a drowned rat. It was the way he was sitting: the stoop in his shoulders and the lowered head, the way he was bowed over the table, almost cowering, shameful or afraid.

He looked _broken_.

Frowning slightly, Emma turned to face the blonde woman, removing a small mug from her tray and setting it on the table with a hollow _clink_. "Coffee, cream, no sugar," she stated more than asked. In truth, she had been doing this for years and no longer worried about getting an order wrong—she didn't even bother to write them down, nowadays.

The military uniform-clad woman lifted her amber eyes to Emma in acknowledgement, before quickly swiveling them back to the blonde teen. Nodding and pushing the white enamel cup across the scarred tabletop towards the lieutenant, she then turned her attention to the other blonde. "And I guess that this one is yours, huh, hon?" she gently questioned, sliding the steaming cup of coffee over to him. "Need any sugar? Honey, cream, milk?"

The teen just remained eerily still and silent, invisible eyes locked onto the table before him. Emma's brow wrinkled in concern and she opened her mouth to ask if he was all right; however, the sudden, clipped response from the other side of the table cut her off:

"No, that will be all. Thank you."

Emma blinked and straightened, looking over to the young military woman; she had picked up her cup of coffee and now had the lip gently pressed against her mouth, amber eyes closed. The waitress felt her mouth open—partly out of surprise and partly as though she were about to protest the order—but then promptly closed it again. One quick glance down at the 9mm Luger holstered at the lieutenant's waist dissuaded any further questioning on her part.

"All right then," Emma said with a polite nod, tucking her tray under her arm. "Call me if you need anything."

Sparing one last, concerned glance at the blonde boy, Emma then reluctantly turned away to check up on her other few customers.

* * *

Riza Hawkeye watched the petite waitress shuffle away, the individual curls in the blob of ginger hair atop her head bouncing jauntily with each step. The blonde woman sighed and set down her coffee, turning her amber optics back across the table to regard Edward. He still looked exactly as she had found him: like death, warmed over. He was pale and wet, shivering slightly in the air-conditioned building, not meeting her eyes.

She breathed out slowly.

The Lieutenant wasn't going to ask the boy if he was all right. It was clear as day that he was _not_ and it would be an asinine question, a waste of breath, to ask. So, she simply said—_commanded_—"Tell me what's wrong, Edward."

The blonde head didn't lift in acknowledgment, the golden eyes did not shift up to her face; it was as if Ed hadn't even heard her. Riza would have, indeed, been surprised if he had. He acted as though he were in his own little world—she had nearly had to carry him to the café in which they now sat, after she had tracked him down.

It hadn't been but an hour before that the Lieutenant had been walking back to the office, a large folder of copied forms in her arms, when a familiar blonde-headed, red-and-black-clad figured had rushed by—nearly knocking her over in the process. "Edward!" she had shouted after him, quickly regaining her balance. The alchemist either hadn't heard her or was ignoring her completely, skittering around a blunt corner and very nearly smashing his way through the front doors, out into the rainy courtyard.

Now, Riza Hawkeye had been a soldier in the Ishbal Rebellion, just like most of the other people under Mustang's command. In her short tour as a sniper there, she had been assaulted at knifepoint, shot at several times, and had nearly been blown to bits by an alchemist-gone-rogue from their side—she had learned very quickly that if one didn't follow their gut instinct, it wouldn't take long for said guts to be adorning the nearest wall.

She only hesitated for a brief moment before acting.

Handing the stack of paperwork off to a flustered-looking private and giving him directions to the office, she then commandeered an umbrella from a passing secretary and followed Edward out into the storm. Hawkeye quickly passed through the cobblestone courtyard (fairly convinced that the young man hadn't lingered there) and entered the familiar Central streets; people scuttled past her, ducked low under the portable refuge of their umbrellas or whatever else was handy, scrambling for something more solid in which to take shelter from the deluge.

After stopping and seeking the assistance of some aggravated—yet, after looking down the business end of her pistol, _very _helpful—civilians, it had taken all of five minutes to find the runaway alchemist.

"Edward?" she had spoken gently, crouching down before the huddled, red mass on Harmond Blvd, not four blocks away from HQ. It was obvious that his legs—_And stomach_, she had noted grimly, careful to avoid the insipid puddle on the sidewalk before the young major—had given out on him just moments before she had arrived. He had been trembling uncontrollably (though, from the rain or some other type of affliction, Hawkeye wasn't sure), his breathing ragged and strained, and had his flesh arm was wound tightly around his midriff.

He hadn't looked up at her.

"Edward," she had attempted again, reaching out and lifting his chin up, forcing his eyes to meet hers. The simple _lack_ of anything there had been enough to shock even a veteran officer such as Riza Hawkeye. He had looked comatose—dead on the inside. His golden eyes had been dark and the pupils dilated; the normally bright, intelligent windows into his soul were curtained over and boarded up. There was . . . there was _nothing_ _there_. Just . . . loss. Hopelessness and sorrow.

Hawkeye had pulled her hand away from his face and hooked it firmly into the sensitive port of his automail arm.

"Come on . . . Let's get you out of this rain."

* * *

"_Brother? . . . Brother . . ._ _Edward! Answer me!"_

_. . . What is it, Al?_

"_You have to tell her, Brother. You have to tell the lieutenant what happened."_

_Tell her _what_, exactly? That I now have a uterus and, somehow, the Bastard knocked me up? Or that he just kicked me out of the military because I can't do alchemy anymore? Maybe I should just go all the way and tell her both, huh? _Why_, exactly, would I go and do that?_

"_Because she's the Lieutenant, Ed! She's smart and strong and level-headed and . . . she can help you. You have to start trusting in people, Brother. I know that we got along by ourselves mostly, but this is different. You don't know what's going on with your body and you need help. Besides, it's not like she won't find out on her own sooner or later. She's kind of scary like that . . ."_

_. . . You know, I really hate it how you're always right all the time._

"_I know you do."_

_How much should I tell her then, Alphonse? I've gotten so used to keeping secrets all these years, it's . . . it's hard to know how much to tell a person. So . . . it's up to you, Al._

"_Everything. Tell her everything."_

* * *

"So . . . you were discharged?" Hawkeye asked evenly, trying to keep her tone neutral despite the surprise she felt bubble in her chest at his confession. Edward had apparently woken up just a few minutes ago and was now talking, his voice low and almost meek. It wasn't the voice she was used to hearing coming out of the brash young man, brimming with sarcasm and self-confidence.

The blonde chuckled ruefully, pushing his untouched mug of coffee off to the side and leaning forward on his elbows. "Yeah—stripped of my rank, watch, and my privileges all in one fell swoop. Bastard handed me my walking papers, all right."

Hawkeye blinked in surprise. "You mean the Colonel? It was the Colonel who discharged you?"

She had expected Hakuro, yes—the man had always wanted one-up on Mustang, afraid of the alchemist climbing the ranks faster than he himself could; afraid that the Flame would outshine him in Bradley's eyes. And Bradley . . . Hawkeye would have pegged the Fuhrer himself for removing Ed's watch and certification if pushed to that. But Mustang?

No.

Edward Elric was one of his treasured subordinates—his _discovery_. He wouldn't have gotten rid of him.

Unless . . .

The ex-Fullmetal nodded solemnly, letting his now-amber eyes fall on her hands, which were now fisted against each other on the table. "Yeah." He paused for a long moment, before finally looking up and meeting her eyes; there was a bitter smile on his face. "You actually sound surprised."

Hawkeye opened her mouth a fraction of an inch, then closed it again, schooling her expression. "I've known the Colonel much longer than you have, Edward," she stated truthfully—she and Roy had been close friends ever since he had come to train under her father. "It just doesn't strike me as something he would do. Not without warning to one of his own subordinates. And . . . especially after he—"

"_Don't_," the Elric spat vehemently, ripping his eyes away to glare out the window to his right.

Hawkeye let her mouth hang open for a brief moment, unsure of how to continue; in the end, she chose to hold her tongue and silently observe the young man for the time being. His expression was still haggard and he had large, plum-coloured pits beneath each eye, but his colour looked like it was improving and his eyes had lightened back to their normal shade of molten gold.

"I assume," she began hesitantly after their moment of silence had stretched into the realm of uncomfortable, "that you were discharged because of your, now, inability to do alchemy without circles, correct? Or perhaps the fact that you attacked a superior officer—intent on _killing_ him, apparently—has something to do with it?"

Still keeping his eyes firmly set out the window, Ed grinned wryly. "Maybe a little of both."

Hawkeye frowned at the alchemist's profile. "Edward . . . I may be stepping out of line here in offering you my advice, but perhaps this is for the best." She watched as the blonde's brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing to interrupt her, so she continued. "You were—in my _honest_ opinion—far too young and naïve to join up with the military when you did. You knew, and still know, very little of what being a soldier is about, nor did you care; you weren't ready. This discharge. Maybe . . . maybe it's a chance for you to start over, away from the military? Start a new life. You know? A new beginning."

By the time she had finished, Edward's expression had turned sour, the corners of his mouth pulled down in a near grimace. "Hawkeye?" he questioned softly, his voice tight.

"Hm?"

"You . . ." One trembling hand reached up and threaded its way through golden locks, pushing back bangs and melding them with the rest of his hair. "You just don't _get_ it, do you?" Edward looked at her then, his yellow eyes wide and his pupils contracted; he had a wild, lopsided grin on his pale face and his shoulders were shaking with barely-contained, cynical laughter. "_What_ starting over? What _new beginning_? Don't you understand—without Al, I have _nothing_. And without the military's backing, there's no possible way that I can continue on with my research—without that, there's no way that I'll be able to come up with a way to create. . . _it_—" He didn't have to outright say what _it_ was for the lieutenant to know. "—that doesn't . . . that . . ."

Edward cast his eyes around the room briefly, looking suddenly nervous and frustrated at there being other people in such close proximity. Hawkeye understood: he didn't have the luxury to speak freely about the subject of the Philosopher's Stone here. The blonde cleared his throat loudly and brought his eyes back to lock on hers. ". . . that doesn't cost something so extreme that I'm not willing to give it," he said pointedly, leaning forward onto his arms. "And without _that_ . . . how will I ever get Al back?"

Hawkeye felt her mouth pull down into a frown, brows furrowing as her amber eyes dropped down to stare into the depths of her lukewarm brew. "Maybe you're not supposed to?" she whispered and sensed Edward's slim frame tense from across the table. "Maybe this is Fate telling you to back off?"

And to that, all the alchemist seemed able to do was snort disdainfully. "Y'know, Lieutenant," he mumbled to her after a short pause, "for being so smart, you sure are _dumb_ to believe in—and expect _me_ bend over to—something as superstitious and hokey as Fate."

Hawkeye lifted her eyes from her cup to his face, leveling him with a sharp look. "I would _expect_ that your past dealings with it would be enough to set you straight," she harshly stated.

The haunted look that came over the boy's face at her comment _almost_ made her regret her words.

Hawkeye sighed heavily, her gaze softening. "Edward," she began gently, reaching across the table to cover his flesh hand with her own. She felt him flinch beneath her touch, but he didn't attempt to withdraw his hand. The blonde woman licked her lips and whispered honestly, "I want you to understand that I am _not_ taking sympathy on you. It's not because I think that you _deserve_ this. What you've had to endure this past month must have been horrific and I can't imagine losing what you did—your only brother, your job and goal, your virginity—and still being able to keep my sanity. No, I'm choosing not to pity you because I _know_ that that's not what you want; you hate people taking pity on you. Besides . . ." Hawkeye smiled sadly and bowed her head, letting her eyes slip shut. "I know that you can get up and move forward on your own."

Hawkeye felt the hand beneath hers twitch slightly and she glanced up to meet eyes the colour of fine scotch. She was pleased to see that they looked appreciative.

"But Edward," she said slowly, "you know that you can't move forward when you are in a place that surrounds you with so many bad memories. Go home. Back to Resembool and the Rockbells. They're your family, too, in case you've forgotten. There, with them, you can heal and move on properly." Hawkeye furrowed her brows and smiled at him in what she hoped was a reassuring way. "Go home, Edward."

The alchemist was pensively silent for a long time after that. His teeth worried his lower lip distractedly and his free automail hand seemed to be trying to dig grooves into the table. "I can't do that, either, Lieutenant," he finally said, bowing his head once again and pulling his hands away to fist in his own lap.

Hawkeye frowned, gently questioning, "And why not?"

Edward looked up at her through his lashes and the lieutenant swore she saw a faint hint of blush staining his golden cheeks. "Because," he muttered and glanced away. "I'm pregnant."

Hawkeye blinked. "Excuse me?" she asked, leaning forward across the table. She couldn't _possibly_ have heard that correctly.

Ed flushed to his roots and attempted to sink under the table. When all that was visible of him was the top half of his head, he murmured, "I-I'm . . . pregnant."

For a moment, the sounds of the café were all that filled their space—the clattering of utensils against white, ceramic plates; the senseless small talk of the patrons; the harsh assault of rain on the café's windows—as the two blondes simply stared at one another. There was the crash of thunder above their heads, rattling the windows, and a dark look suddenly passed over Riza Hawkeye's face.

"And who told you this?" she asked in a hushed voice, as lightning slashed an angry wound across the turbulent sky.

* * *

Dr. Joseph Antley frowned and stiffened his spine.

When his nurse, Beverly, had informed him that he had visitors waiting for him in his office, he hadn't given it a second thought. There were a number of people who were supposed to be stopping by that day—both patients, finance-related, and otherwise—so Antley had finished his examination of Timothy Wells' throat, diagnosed him as having an exceptionally mild case of tonsillitis, and then had gone to attend to his guests.

As he made his way towards his office, the sandy-haired doctor had ticked off the short list of possibilities of who could be awaiting him there. Because it was the first Monday of the month, Antley had been expecting Joshua Baker, the clinic's accountant and financial consultant, to stop by. Though—or maybe _because_—he was the youngest of the three physicians there, he had been usurped and volunteered by Warren Humboldt and Allen Jones to oversee the clinic's spending and earnings.

Antley had sighed quietly to himself.

According to the books, it appeared that, lately, their small practice had been hemorrhaging, doing far more spending than earning—Antley assumed that it was because they were slowly losing their patients to the larger hospitals of Central. Those same hospitals that were unknowingly leeching their clients away, had also been propositioning the three private doctors as of late, attempting to convince them to put their efforts and skills to better use within their walls. Though all three of them had politely and unanimously declined their offers, as time passed and the bleeding continued, the prospect of a steady income began to look more and more appealing to the three GPs. He, Warren, and Allen had decided that, when Baker stopped by this time, they were going to do a thorough cost-benefit analysis on the clinic and, if the foreseeable future did not look promising, they would make the decision to shut it down.

Antley had sincerely hoped that it wasn't him.

He had also been expecting Herman Shoost, the son of one of his patients. Shoost's mother, Maryanne, had come into the clinic complaining of light-headedness and nausea—while filling out her information in the waiting room, she had suffered what the autopsy would later reveal as a massive aneurism in one of the arteries at the base of her brain and had died. Though it had been an accident—unforeseeable and completely unpreventable—and Mr. Shoost seemed to understand that, Antley still felt that he should talk to the woman's family and explain things. Warren had thought that it was a good idea, covering the clinic's ass, and Antley had pondered over what point in his thirty-year career the man had lost his humanity. He hadn't bothered explaining to the older physician that _coverage_ wasn't why he was doing it.

The sandy-haired doctor had hoped it wasn't Mr. Shoost, either.

Antley had been anticipating a few other people showing up, as well. He was expecting a new shipment of supplies sometime that week, enough to hopefully get them through the rest of the month; he was expecting one of the technicians from the lab that they used to be stopping by to drop off test results; and he was expecting some bureaucratic asshole to be popping in to do a yearly check on whether or not their little practice was both structurally sound and technologically efficient . . .

What he _wasn't_ expecting was to open his office door and find the muzzle of a pistol shoved in his face.

Gazing down the barrel of the gun into angry, amber eyes, Antley could only roll his own hazel orbs heavenwards and wryly think to himself, _Dear God, that's it._ _I quit._

Swallowing thickly and ghosting the tips of his curled fingers against his raised palms, the doctor fought to put an amicable smile on his face as he stuttered out, "M-may I help you, Miss . . . ?"

"First Lieutenant Hawkeye," the woman behind the gun answered snappily, emphasizing her rank ever so slightly. "And you must be Doctor Antley—the man who . . ." Something raw and hostile glistened behind her sharp eyes as she paused then and Antley cringed as the sickening sound of the safety clicking off met his ears. ". . . who told this _boy_ that he was _pregnant_."

Antley started.

Surprise and disbelief ran through his already-frayed nerves and his heart pulled, painfully hopeful, in his chest—hazel optics finally disabled the paralytic hold that the sight of the pistol had bestowed on them and found their way past the fiery-eyed guard blocking his doorway, searching for the treasure they knew would be there . . .

They sought out gold.

"Edward?"

* * *

After some compromising and gentle coercion (mostly on Ed's part), order had finally been restored within the small office. Edward had come forward, laid his hand gently on her arm, and had spoken soft words to the upset lieutenant; a look of great sadness had suddenly invaded her eyes and, after a few more tense moments, she had holstered her weapon. Antley had let his breath out in a relieved _whoosh_ and, at the look the woman had given him, decided that it was best to further placate her with the promise of the alchemist's test results.

She was currently seated next to the young man in question and scouring over the papers in her lap, furrowing her brow and frowning contemplatively. Antley, who kept shooting wary glances in her direction and hastily answering her questions, silently commended her on her focus and thoroughness.

Edward was quiet throughout most of their exchange, flitting his eyes back and forth interestedly between them, but only speaking in monosyllabic sentences when he was called to. Antley took in his posture and appearance, taking note of the toll already being put on his ill-suited body: the boy looked pale and sullen, but thankfully alert. And, though he definitely wasn't what Antley would describe as being _comfortable_ there, the blonde certainly wasn't as anxious or depressed as the last two times he had visited the man.

"I really didn't expect you to come back," the doctor quietly confided, lacing his fingers beneath his chin and eyeing his patient thoughtfully.

Edward considered him for a moment, then turned his face away and chuckled wryly. "I really didn't, either," he said after a while. "Guess that makes fools of both of us."

Antley smiled sadly. "I guess so."

A heavy miasma of silence settled within the office then, curling around their ankles and snaking its way up the legs of the furniture. The sounds of the outside world going by made its way beneath the office door, but the three souls locked within the small room really paid it no heed. Antley watched his patient and guest; Edward kept his eyes on the bookshelf in the far corner; Hawkeye shuffled through her papers.

"So . . ." the crisp, feminine voice suddenly broke through the reverie. Edward and Antley both blinked simultaneously, and turned their eyes to the blonde lieutenant. She tapped the sheaf of papers against her thighs to straighten them, slid them carefully back into their manila folder, and then brought calculating eyes up to meet Antley's gaze. "This is real, isn't it?"

The sandy-haired doctor regarded her for a brief moment, before sighing and nodding his head gingerly. "I'm afraid so, Lieutenant. Even if Edward _isn't_ pregnant, that still means that there is something seriously wrong, for there to be such a drastic increase in hormones in his system—_especially_ the progesterone and the hCG."

Hawkeye nodded a few times, then immediately went back to looking at the files in her lap, ever an expert at sorting through paperwork. "Yes, I see what you mean," she said off-handedly. "Estrogen is naturally occurring in males—just as testosterone can be found in trace amounts in females—so a drastic increase in it could at least be explained as simply overproduction of that specific hormone."

"Exactly," Antley agreed, straightening in his chair and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "The progesterone and hCG, however, are only found in women . . . and hCG is found only in _pregnant_ women, so . . ." He shrugged with his hands. "There's no reason for Edward to have it in his blood."

The blonde lieutenant didn't look up from her studying as she asked the doctor, "It couldn't be some sort of . . . _malfunction_ in an endocrine gland? Possibly brought on by his alchemy?"

Antley's mouth pulled down in the corners and he gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders. "The progesterone, _maybe_—it's produced by the brain and the adrenal glands, along with the ovaries and, during pregnancy, the placenta, so there's a chance that Edward's brain got something mixed up and began producing it." He cleared his throat. "The hCG is a different story, though."

Hawkeye _did_ look up then, the unasked question burning in the depths of her piercing eyes; however, it was Edward who actually voiced it.

"Why?" he asked in a small voice, golden eyes wide and hands clutching his own leather-clad knees tightly.

Antley swiveled his chair in Ed's direction and tipped his face down to study the blonde over the tops of his glasses. "Because," he began with a low sigh, "hCG is made _only_ by the embryo and the placenta. There are no endocrine glands involved. At the time you came to me, I was under the impression that a person _had_ to be pregnant in order for hCG to show up in a blood or urine test." Hazel eyes flicked over to meet calculating amber. "So, you can see, Lieutenant, _why_ I diagnosed Edward so drastically . . . however premature that diagnosis may have been."

One golden brow shot up over a tanned expanse of forehead. "Premature?" Ed muttered uncertainly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Closing his eyelids against the pressure building just inside his orbital cavities and pushing the long-suffering sigh out of his lungs, Antley turned back to face his patient. "It means that, since your diagnosis three days ago, I have come across information that's . . ." The doctor paused to consider his words. ". . . to the contrary."

Both of the blondes before him cast askance glances at one another. Hawkeye cleared her throat. "What exactly does 'to the contrary' imply, Dr. Antley?" she asked tartly.

"You mean that I'm . . . I'm not pregnant?" Ed's voice broke in, small and constricted, but hopeful.

Antley pursed his lips thoughtfully and stared down at his own tented fingers. "After you came to me and I diagnosed you, I began to do research on things that could possibly explain your condition. I started digging through my old documents, back from when I was in medical school." The man suddenly reached down behind his desk and opened a drawer to his immediate right. Edward shifted his confused gaze down and watched as Antley withdrew a thick sheaf of papers. After extracting the bundle, he neatly plopped it down onto his desk and toed the drawer shut again. "A colleague of mine from back then, Griff Ross, was very big on the detection and treatment of neoplasms. Malignant tumours and lesions—he was going into oncology. In fact, he wrote his doctoral dissertation—" Antley tapped his fingers against the stack of papers he had just deposited onto his desk; Ed assumed that it was a published copy of the dissertation. "—on teratomas and choriocarcinomas. Very interesting pap—"

"Is there a _point_ to this, Doctor?" Hawkeye finally snapped.

If the small tic just above her left eye was any indication, the woman was getting upset. Antley cleared his throat. "W-well, yes. You see, he discovered that certain tumours—like choriocarcinomas, teratomas, and islet cell tumours—could be detected . . ." The doctor took a deep breath and said pointedly, "by the presence of hCG."

Ed looked up sharply.

He heard Hawkeye's breath catch, just for a second. "So, you think Edward has . . . _cancer_?" she asked in an awed voice, keeping her tone low.

Antley shook his head and let his shoulders droop a tad. "At this point, I'm not willing to say for certain, seeing how spot-on my diagnosis of him was the last time." After a pause, the doctor smiled. "But you have to admit that it's a better explanation than "He's pregnant," isn't it?"

Hawkeye sighed patiently. "Yes, I suppose so." Standing up, the lieutenant moved over to the desk and took the dissertation away from beneath Antley's arms. For a while, the only sounds in the small office were of Hawkeye leafing through the generous document, reading over sections that Antley had marked as important.

"Well," she said after nearly fifteen minutes, "now that you have so adequately diagnosed Edward, what do you plan to do about it?" Her voice was tight and filled with stubborn ire, clearly still miffed about the doctor's earlier misdiagnosis of Edward's obviously serious condition.

Antley frowned. "Now, you should get him to a hospital," he explained. "We're just a small clinic and don't have the necessary equipment or skill for surgery. I would take him to Dauterive, in south Central—they have one of the best surgical teams in Amestris, let alone the city. Plus, they have two oncologists there who would just go _nuts_ over a case like this." The sandy-haired doctor looked somber for a brief moment, as if he was actually upset that he would be losing this patient. He swallowed and stated quietly, "Edward will get the best care there. Go and ask to get a biopsy done, then they'll see about opera—"

"It's not cancer."

Antley faltered mid-sentence, turning open-mouthed to stare at Edward. Hawkeye pivoted slowly before the desk until she was facing the blonde boy, fixing him with her sharp, amber eyes.

Edward was still in his seat. The alchemist was leaning forward over his own knees, back arched and shoulders hunched; his head was tipped down so that his bangs obscured his face and his braid hung limply over his shoulder.

Hawkeye's gaze softened. "Edward . . ."

"It's _not_," he snarled. A small frown creased the Lieutenant's smooth forehead at this almost savage display. After a short beat, she opened her mouth to try again, but was cut off for a second time.

This time, it was by Edward bringing his hands together.

_Clap!_

Hawkeye and Antley looked on numbly as the short blonde pressed his palms flat against each other, his arms trembling beneath the sheer force as he seemingly tried to meld his hands together. Ed bore his teeth and growled out, "It's not cancer. If it is, then why did I lose this? This is not something that'll simply disappear if I get sick." The teen let his joined hands slowly fall down into his lap and turned his golden eyes to his doctor's. "My ability has nothing to do with hormones, biology, anatomy, or medicine—it's alchemy, plain and simple." Edward shook his head and looked up at Hawkeye piteously. "I _know_ it's not cancer."

The blonde lieutenant frowned. "Edward, you can't possibly think that you're actually pre—"

"I don't know _what_ to think anymore, Lieutenant. I have to keep reminding myself that what I'm suffering from is not the cause of normal, everyday life." Edward paused then and Antley didn't miss the meaningful look that passed between the two blondes. The alchemist swallowed thickly and smiled. "I'm just trying to keep my options open."

Hawkeye leveled his gaze for several seconds, her knowing eyes boring into his and probing the exhausted honesty behind them, before she finally sighed and turned back to Antley. "He's right, Doctor. It's not cancer."

The sandy-haired physician blinked and opened his mouth to argue. "But—"

"Edward knows what he's talking about, trust me," she gently insisted, straightening the document she still held and then replacing it on Antley's desk. "You may know medicine, but he knows alchemy. If he says that a tumour wouldn't disrupt his ability to do alchemy without circles, then I'm going to believe him. As should you."

Antley let his mouth hang open for a moment longer, then quickly shut it and sat back in his chair. "Great," he muttered dejectedly. "I guess that puts us right back at square one."

Edward pursed his lips for a thoughtful minute, then breathed out heavily. "Isn't there, um, any way to . . ." The blonde hesitated. "To find out for sure if I'm . . . y'know?"

Antley regarded his patient through eyes narrowed in sympathy. "Pregnant?" he finished for the blonde.

Ed chuckled awkwardly and reached up to rub at the nape of his neck. "Trust me, if I had a choice between having cancer and being pregnant, I'd choose the cancer, but since that's not the case . . . Yeah, that's what I'm asking. So," Ed glanced away, then back again hopefully. "Do you?"

The sandy-haired doctor let his hazel eyes drop down to his desktop and chewed pensively on his bottom lip, remaining silent as he wracked his mind for a solution to Edward's question. Both blondes watched and waited patiently, Hawkeye standing stock-still and Ed furtively wringing his hands in his lap as the nervous hush stretched out—time passed wickedly slow and just as the silence was beginning to crackle like electricity beneath Edward's skin, making him squirm and _itch_, Antley shifted and spoke.

"There is one thing."

* * *

Edward Elric tried to lie perfectly still, in spite of the discomfort he was currently experiencing.

His jacket and red overcoat had been removed and his black tank was now pulled up and bunched just under his diaphragm; his pants had been unbuttoned and, along with his boxers (much to his chagrin) had been rolled down slightly over his pelvis, revealing the expanse of skin just below his navel. The chill emanating off the table he now lay on easily penetrated the thin sheet of paper that separated his bare skin from the icy metal—it was uncomfortable, but considering that he often had cold automail bits pressing against the flesh of his body, Edward didn't find this too disquieting. The blonde grimaced and hissed, however, as Antley walked his fingers along the side of his belly, pressing and feeling for any abnormalities—whether they be malignant tumours . . . or a fetus.

At one point in the examination, he ground the pads of his joined fingers into the alchemist's tummy a little too aggressively and Ed responded with a yelp and a disdainful look in his direction. Antley smiled apologetically, finished up, and then backed off.

"Well," he said, stripping the white latex gloves from his hands and disposing of them. "There's definitely something in there that _shouldn't _be."

Edward pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Seriously?"

Antley nodded shortly and turned away to dig in a drawer behind him. "Despite your knowledge of alchemy and your insistence that a neoplasm wouldn't upset your ability, I'm still hedging my bets on you having a teratoma. Most likely the abnormality that I'm feeling in your abdomen—ah, here we are!" The doctor turned away from the cabinet and shut the drawer with his hip, after extracting what he was looking for. As he made his way back towards the table, Ed saw that it was a stethoscope; he cast a wary glance at Hawkeye. She just gave him a reassuring look.

Antley must have seen the subtle exchange, for he stopped just as he reached the table and paused to drape the stethoscope over the back of his neck. "I guess I should explain," he said in a calm voice. "It's quite simple, actually—you see, in the womb, a fetus's heart will start beating at four weeks after conception, give or take a day or so. Because you have already passed that time—you're at nearly six weeks now, correct?—I propose a simple, painless experiment:

"I listen with my stethoscope for the baby's heartbeat. If there's not one, then you'll promise me that you will go to Dauterive and get a biopsy done, since there is something abnormal in your abdomen; if there _is_ one . . . well, we'll cross that bridge if we come to it." Antley cocked his head to one side and fixed Ed with a look. "All right?"

The blonde alchemist carefully considered him for a long moment, fixing him with his now-bright aureate eyes, before sighing in defeat and ducking his head in a small, quick nod. "Yeah, all right."

Joseph Antley nodded once and then fixed the stethoscope in place. Taking the scope in his fingers, he brought it up to his own mouth and breathed out onto it, warming the cool metal with his own breath—Ed found this oddly endearing and comforting—and then pressed it against the gentle rise of Edward's tummy.

Several moments passed in tense silence, Edward listening to the sound of his own heart pounding heatedly in his ears as Antley seemingly tried to push the scope through his skin as he searched for a heartbeat of his own. Minutes became hazy and distorted to Ed, time gradually fading away until the only thing was the feel of the stethoscope against his stomach and the rapid patter of his heart against his sternum.

Antley seemed immune to the internal turmoil that was plaguing his patient, and continued to move the scope over and around, straining his ears to hear something more concrete than the gurgling of Edward's gut. Up closer to the diaphragm, press, listen; across and around, over the floating ribs, press, listen; down past the navel, press, listen . . . It was only when the scope continued on lower, settling just above the pubic bone that Edward finally snapped out of his odd stupor and found the sense to be uncomfortable.

"_Whoa!_" he half-shouted and reached down to grab Antley's forearm. "Watch the hands there, doc."

Antley sighed patiently and let a small smile form on his lips, but didn't remove the scope. "I'm not trying to _molest_ you, Edward. If there is a fetus, then, right now, it will be exceptionally tiny and I have to check all around to locate the heartbe—"

He suddenly stopped and a glazed look came over his face. All of his features seemed to deflate with uncertainty and his hazel eyes glassed over. Ed's brow furrowed and he looked askance at the lieutenant, dismayed to see that she seemed almost as confused at this new development as he felt. "Antley?" he murmured. "You okay?"

"Hold your breath for me, Edward," the doctor asked in a hushed voice.

"What? Why?"

"Just do it, _please_," was the urgent response.

The blonde alchemist hesitated just a moment—taking in Antley's far-off look—before ultimately complying with the doctor's request. He sucked in a large lungful and held it there, watching Antley's face with concern.

The hazel eyes were focused on a point on the table, just past Edward's hip—looking, but not _really_ looking—as he pressed the scope flatly against tanned stomach, holding his own breath as he strained to hear.

"_There_," he said breathlessly, eyes widening and dilating.

Taking this as a sign that Antley had found what he was looking for, Ed gasped and wheezed out the lungful of stale air. Hawkeye, looking especially apprehensive about this turn of events, stepped forward and laid a gentle hand on the doctor's shoulder. "What is it?" she asked.

Ignoring the lieutenant, Antley quickly pulled the stethoscope buds from his ears and disentangled the device from around his neck, making sure to keep the scope firmly in place against Edward's abdomen. "Here," he muttered, handing the ear-buds to Ed. "Listen to this."

Frowning, Edward eyed the stethoscope warily before reaching out with his flesh hand and taking it from Antley. The blonde eventually had to lie back on the cold table in order to free up his arms, but after several seconds, Ed was finally able to get the buds in place . . .

It sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. At first, it sounded remarkably like static or a phonograph playing a badly-scratched record; that quickly went away and was replaced by an indescribable sound, wet and squelching and Ed quickly realized that it was gut, grinding away on bile and fluids. That was all he could detect for a while and he wondered if that was what Antley had wanted him to hear. But then another sound broke through the tumult of his organs.

"What is that?" he asked, voice quiet and filled with awe.

Antley watched his face for a moment, head tilted off to one side and eyes squinted. "What do you _hear_?"

"It . . ." Ed shook his head, trying to work out just how to describe the strange, new sound to the doctor. "It s-sounds kinda like some . . . like someone beating a piece of tin or . . . or aluminum with a metal spoon."

"Rapidly?"

"Yeah," the blonde muttered. "Rapidly." Pulling the stethoscope out of his ears and handing it back to the doctor, Edward sat up and looked over at Antley. "What is it?" he asked again, now not even sure if he was ready for the answer.

"That," said Antley, wrapping up his stethoscope and setting it on the table next to his patient, "is the sound of a fetus's heart beating inside of you."

* * *

"Is he going to be okay?"

Dr. Antley watched the retreating back, red-cloaked and stoop-shouldered, as it departed from his offices for the third time in four short weeks. The rain had stopped some time before and the puddles left behind bled red and gold as the figure passed them.

With a sigh, he turned back to the lieutenant; she was standing next to him, watching the alchemist go with a look of sorrowful regret on her face. "I don't know," he told her honestly. "I mean, physically he should be able to carry the baby to full-term and, with a Cesarean-section, deliver—there are vitamins and medicines that he can take nowadays to help him along." Antley paused. "_Mentally_, though?" He frowned and looked to Hawkeye. "This is going to be hard on his psyche and his emotions. Now, you know him far better than I do, so you would have a better idea of how he'll cope with this. I can help him through the physical aspects of the pregnancy and delivery, but he'll need his friends and loved ones to keep him sane through it _and_ after it."

Hawkeye brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, hooking it under the lobe so that the wind wouldn't free it again. "What if . . ." she asked apprehensively. "What if he changes his mind . . . about . . .?"

"I doubt that he will," Antley assured, cutting off her negative train of thought. "He seemed fairly sure of his choice . . . However, if he does, you should let him know that he only has until his eighteenth week. Then, there's nothing more we can do about it."

The blonde lieutenant closed her eyes and nodded slowly. "I don't think I'll tell him. Doing so gives Edward a timeline and that almost assures that he'll distress over his choice. So no. I don't think I'll tell him."

The doctor regarded her askance, then smiled and turned his head away. "Whatever you think is best, Lieutenant."

The two of them stood in companionable silence outside the offices, watching strangers mill around now that the rain had passed, entering and exiting the more run-down buildings. Edward had disappeared from both of their sights—something that unnerved Antley, but that Hawkeye found little use to worry over.

Edward could pretty much take care of himself if he had to. Hadn't he proven that time and time again, since he was just ten years old? Walking back to HQ, even as despondent as he currently was, should have been one of the least-stressful tasks he could have undergone at the moment.

"Does he have somewhere to stay?" came Antley's voice suddenly.

Hawkeye opened her amber eyes and looked at the sandy-haired man; he was gazing at her sideways, past the earpiece of his glasses. The woman considered him and his question for a long moment . . . then smiled crookedly.

"I have a place in mind."

* * *

**(peaks cautiously from around corner) Heh, sorry for the obscenely long wait, y'all. I hope that this redone chapter is much better than the last one I posted and makes up for the two month wait. If not . . . well, I don't know what to do.**

**A few points to make about this chapter: **

**1) I took **_**extreme**_** liberty with the hormone hCG, seeing as how it wasn't even that well known until the 1970s. Just something to keep in mind for any of you future/present bio majors . . .**

**2) Antley's friend from med school, Griff Ross, was a real person. He—with his colleague Judith Vaitukaitis—came up with the method to test for certain tumours with the detection of hCG. I tweaked his history a bit, but still wanted to use him. (nods)**

**3) Because this is **_**still**_** Chapter 8, if you've already left a review, then you can't do it again under your account. Now, I've already reached and surpassed my review quota for this chapter (for which a give a **_**BIG**_** huggleglomp to you all!), so there's really no need for any of y'all to review again; however, if you see something that you think I should know, you can log out and drop me an "anonymous" review.**

**Just thought y'all should know. (smiles broadly) Have a good Thanksgiving!**


	9. Gambit

**(waves) Hi'all, I'm back. I'd like to thank my good friend and lovely beta Staehli (Fae Elric) for helping me get this chapter out and apologize to all of y'all for taking so long with it. **

**I really have nothing of importance to say, so . . . read away, my pretties!**

**Disclaimer: . . . **_**Really?**_

* * *

"_Things alter for the worse spontaneously, if they be not altered for the better designedly."_

-Francis Bacon

* * *

**Chapter IX: Gambit**

Even through the haze of pain medication, Roy Mustang had known it was a bad idea.

He scowled up at Edward's back from the living room as the boy ascended the main staircase; once he'd reached the landing, he headed straight for the first room on his left. The force of the door slamming behind him was enough to jostle a few of the paintings hanging on the wall. Roy sighed and let his eyes slip shut, turning to his loyal subordinate and childhood friend.

Hawkeye kept her eyes locked on Edward's temporary bedroom door for a few moments longer, before making an uneasy sound and turning her amber eyes on him. Her lips were pressed into a thin, stressed line, her brows dipped shallowly beneath a worry-creased forehead, and her arms were folded tightly beneath her chest.

The two old friends regarded each other for a short time, then the Colonel smiled—a smile that managed to be both disarming and sad at the same time—and asked her, "Tell me why I'm doing this again?"

In truth, he didn't need for her to explain the whys of the situation to him—he understood perfectly. He knew why, though it might be the best place for him right now, the young alchemist could not return to his hometown. Now, Roy didn't doubt the skill of the doctors that were produced from Resembool—not when he himself had had a grave injury treated by one of them during Ishbal—what he did doubt was the current physician's ability to keep his or her mouth shut about Edward's condition. Antley—though Roy didn't _quite_ know what to make of the man just yet—had quickly earned the Flame's fragile trust and Roy counted him as a valuable ally that they couldn't spare during the next several months.

He knew that, without his job and the military's backing, the blonde could no longer stay in the residential dorms and his savings would only cover so many weeks of hotel room rent and his ravenous appetite. He knew that Hawkeye wished that she had the luxury to take the teen in herself and look after him for the next eight months; he knew this because she had _told_ the Colonel this and he didn't doubt the truth in her voice and eyes.

He knew that _he_—with his colonel's salary, his reputation and influence, and, most importantly, his off-base house—was the only person in his small unit of trusted soldiers that could take the Elric in.

Yes. He knew and agreed with all of this. But that still didn't stop him from thinking it was a bad idea.

Hawkeye's eyebrows drew down even more—not in anger, but in muted sorrow and pity—and she opened her mouth as if to reply. But, in the end, she shut it again and closed her eyes, giving her blonde head a slow shake; she hummed thoughtfully to herself and Roy swore he saw one corner of her mouth pull up almost imperceptibly.

"Come on, sir," she said quietly, before he had a chance to contemplate that _too_ much and put a hand on his lower back to steer him towards the kitchen. "I'll make us something to drink."

* * *

The room was simple and plain, quite clean and lacking any type of personality. The walls were a faint shade of taupe and there was an ivory berber carpet on the floor and faded beige drapes hung limp over the window; a twin bed—draped in burgundy sheets and a tan comforter—was pushed up against one wall, opposite a teak chest-of-drawers. Other than that, the room was utterly empty.

And it stank of the Bastard.

To Edward, it felt like eating dirt—it was bland, tasteless, and disgusting.

"_I think it's nice,"_ his brother's voice spoke placidly from inside his head. Edward rolled his golden eyes—he could just _see_ Alphonse standing there with his hands clasped meekly before him, looking around with that annoying let's-make-the-best-of-it attitude of his. The alchemist snorted in aggravation and tossed his suitcase in a random direction, half-hoping to break something, even though there was nothing fragile in the room; it hit the wall and bounced harmlessly off, falling neatly over onto its side and doing little damage to the carpet.

"_Brother!"_ Al chastised. _"I know you're upset, but I've told you before not to throw the suitcase around! You might break it!"_

However, the Elric's battered luggage knew better than to be insulted—it had taken far more abuse than this, after all.

Edward, ignoring his younger brother's appeal and quite put off that he hadn't managed to put _some_ sort of dent in the plaster of the wall, walked over and gave the innocent suitcase a swift kick with his automail foot. This sent it careening under the bed and the alchemist grinned almost manically at the satisfying _clack_ it made as it made contact with the underside of the bed frame.

Al sighed patiently. _"You know . . . it might actually be better to tell people that you're pregnant. That way, you can blame your foul mood on the hormones, instead of letting people think that you act this way _all_ the time."_

* * *

Roy stared blandly down into his mug. The liquid was a clear, warm ochre colour and the whole kitchen smelt distinctly of chamomile. His frown deepened. "I was hoping for something a little stronger," he told Hawkeye pointedly before taking a delicate sip.

His subordinate was at the stove with her back to him, pouring steaming water into another waiting mug. "It would mix with your medication, sir," she answered simply, not even gracing his request with a glance over her shoulder. The Colonel briefly pulled a face—not entirely from the taste of the tea-water—and set his mug down on his butcher-block table.

He stared into the mug with disinterest, seeing the few dregs past his yellowed reflection, and listened to Hawkeye move efficiently around the kitchen, seeking out the honey and milk for her own beverage. After a while, a chair was moved and there was the dull clunk of porcelain against wood. Roy looked up at her as she sat down across the table from him.

They sat in companionable silence for a long time, drinking their tea and listening in exasperation as a half-automail alchemist began to crash around stridently, just above their heads. It kept on for several minutes—which only caused the pounding in Roy's head to increase—and, at one point, the Colonel actually swiveled around in his seat to make sure that all of the coffered beams were still attached to the dining room ceiling.

"How's your hand?" Hawkeye inquired, her voice somewhat strained.

Grateful for the sudden distraction to Edward's childish ruckus, Roy sighed and turned back to face his subordinate, folding his hands around his tea. A bitter reply formed in the back of his throat in response to another Edwardian thump, but he carefully swallowed that and glanced down at his hands. While the right was perfectly normal—ivory skin, pristine manicure, and covered in a white and red-embroidered glove—the left was wrapped from knuckles to forearm in a stiff gauze cast.

Edward, as it turned out, had a fist almost as hard as his head.

When the blonde's punch had landed home in his palm, the automail had effectively broken three of the phalanges and caused hairline fractures to two more, not to mention the break of one of the delicate bones of the wrist. Despite all the damage, the infirmary doctor Roy had seen said that he was quite lucky—if he had caught Edward's punch head on, instead of at an angle like he had, the force could have easily crumpled the radius and ulna of the alchemist's forearm.

Though he had initially not considered himself the recipient of good fortune, Roy soon found out that the teen had actually been trying to put his automail spear through his face—it was only by sheer fucking _luck_ that he had lost his circle-less alchemy before then and the Flame's life had been spared.

He just wished that he'd had the foresight to protect himself with his right hand, instead of his left—after all, Hawkeye couldn't make him do paperwork if his writing hand was busted to shit.

Roy sighed. "Well, the doctor on call at the infirmary said that the cast can come off in about three weeks and the bones should be completely healed in five or six, if there's no displacement. The pain medication makes me groggy and kind of sick," he admitted to his subordinate after a moment, "but at least it keeps my arm from feeling like it's one big throbbing mass of—" A crash, louder than before, sounded through the dinning hall's ceiling and startled Roy out of his explanation. "What the hell is he doing up there?" the dark-haired alchemist snarled and turned to look up at the ceiling just past the kitchen entrance.

"Be patient with him, sir," Hawkeye told him plaintively, not for the first time. "It's only for the next eight months or so, after all."

To this, Roy could only roll his eyes.

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, each nursing their own mug of tea and examining the grain of the table before them. Roy could barely hear the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock in the living room and that made him realize that Edward had quieted down at last. He sighed. Roy had hoped that, with Edward coming to stay there, he and the teen would be able to talk about what had happened between them and possibly repair the unstable friendship that had been broken by that night of weakness. But now . . .

Roy sighed again.

He would have to allow Edward some time to settle in and get comfortable before he attempted any sort of reconciliation, and Roy allowed himself a brief moment of aggravation over the blonde's childishness. At this point in his life, he hadn't wanted to get saddled with a kid—so, the idea of suddenly having _two_ to take care of was not at all appealing to him.

Letting out a gentle sigh, he looked up at Hawkeye. "You know," he confided in a low voice after a few seconds, "back when we were younger—before I had truly come to terms with myself—I thought it would be you that I would be having children with." Roy lowered his eyes. "I thought I would marry you."

"Do you still think that?" she asked him slowly and he glanced up at her. Though Hawkeye had gotten very good at hiding her emotions from others, Roy had known her almost as long as she had known herself and could read her feelings in her expressive eyes and in her voice; right now, the amber orbs were clear and calm, and her tone was neutral. She was not hopeful or eager to find out his answer—she was merely curious for curiosity's sake. And for that, Roy was extremely grateful.

He chuckled ruefully. "Time changes people," he supplied as a simple answer to her question and turned in his chair to look up at the din ceiling again. The thumps from upstairs had stopped completely.

The Flame heard Hawkeye chuff approvingly and say, "It's good to see you grew out of that, sir. It would be a shame if you were still pining for me after all this time." The Colonel chuckled wryly, relieved to see that Hawkeye's sense of humour was only repressed and not gone completely. "Besides," she continued, looking down into her mug, "I've always thought that I'd serve you better as a friend and comrade than as a lover."

Roy smiled up at the coffered tin ceiling of his kitchen, tracing the lines with his eyes. "Glad we could see eye-to-eye, Riza . . . And thanks."

The blonde woman smiled warmly and bowed her head in a humble nod. Roy leaned his head back and closed his eyes, content to let the silence stretch. Hawkeye, however, seemed to have something important on her mind.

"Roy," she said, voice unexpectedly terse, and the alchemist felt compelled to look at her. Her eyes were locked on his face and her mouth was set in a tight line. "We have to talk about Edward. There's something I think you should know."

* * *

Edward Elric huffed and flopped down onto the bed gracelessly; he tucked his legs underneath him and surveyed the room from his perch, eyes glinting with satisfaction at the chaos he had rained down on the bedroom. Old clothes had been ripped from their resting places and strewn across the floor in tatters, making the room smell faintly of mothballs; Ed had discovered a small walk-in closet and made short work of the hangers and shelves there; and he found that drawers, once removed from the dresser and nightstand, made for excellent missiles, doing far more damage to the walls than the suitcase had.

After several minutes of silence, his brother's voice intoned flatly from inside his head. _"Are you done?"_ he asked, sounding clearly unimpressed.

The blonde snorted in disdain at Al's uncaring attitude towards the situation, then reached over and grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed. After viciously beating it into submission, Ed lay down, facing away from the turmoil that was now the Bastard's guestroom, and folded himself deftly around it.

He was upset.

He was _upset_ that it had been close to twenty minutes since his arrival and Hawkeye had _yet_ to come up and check on him; the Lieutenant had promised to help him settle in, help get him accustomed to the idea of staying in the Bastard's house, and so far, she hadn't even shown her face. Instead, she had chosen to stay downstairs and talk with _him_ and that . . . that _hurt_. It hurt more than Edward cared to admit and he clutched the pillow tighter against him and wondered when he had turned into such a pussy.

_Probably when I let him fuck me and got pregnant_, he crassly thought with a golden-eyed roll and a self-deprecating chuckle.

There was an awkward clearing of throat and Ed cringed as he suddenly remembered that he wasn't alone in his head. _. . . Sorry, Al._

A weary sigh sounded hollowly and there was the soft creaking of metal as his sibling shrugged. _"That's okay, Brother. Just . . . try and keep your thoughts to yourself next time, okay?"_ Edward smiled sadly and there was the whisper of cotton sheet against skin and hair as he gently nodded his understanding. He wasn't sure whether or not Al could see a simple action like nodding, being a disembodied voice and all, but when he continued on chirpily—sounding in much better spirits than Edward currently felt—the blonde figured that he could. _"Besides, you're only feeling and acting this way because of the hormones, like I told you before,"_ Al said. _"You've got a lot more estrogen in your system than normal, which is why you're behaving the way you are—we both did a lot of anatomy research for Mom . . . so I know you know that it's estrogen that makes girls act all . . . _girly_."_

Edward scowled at the subtle dig at his own behaviour and grumbled, _Yeah, yeah, I know. So?_

"So_, I don't get why you're surprised that you're acting this way."_

Edward frowned, and his initial thought was to tell Al that it was different when it was _his_ body and not a drawing in an anatomy book; however, even in the self-pitying state that he was, Ed knew that a comment like that could be extremely hurtful to his brother, so he swallowed it down. Instead, he allowed his mind to drift back to what Al had been saying before, about estrogen—a thought occurred to him then and he voiced it before he had a chance to properly think it over:

_You think I might grow breasts?_ he asked, horrified.

Al shifted and went quiet for several minutes—whether that was because of contemplation or hesitation, Ed wasn't sure—before he finally mumbled uncertainly,_ "It's possible, I suppose."_

Much to his credit, Ed swelled up like an irate puffer fish, wheezed out a garbled curse, then turned brick red and hid his face in his pillow, completely mortified.

* * *

Roy's frown—which had only gotten deeper and more pronounced as Hawkeye had continued on with her explanation—was now in danger of falling off of his face completely.

"So . . . he wanted to terminate the pregnancy." He spoke quietly—almost to himself—and gingerly tapped the fingers of his good hand against his chin. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did, considering the boy's current mental stability, but he . . .

Roy released a deceptively steady breath.

He had just _assumed_ that Edward would be carrying the baby to term.

Hawkeye took a sip of tea and nodded, giving him time to process all the information she had just laid across the table before them. "Yes," she began slowly. "After Antley had determined that there was, indeed, a heartbeat, Edward . . . he seemed to almost dissolve into himself. Didn't speak to either Antley or myself, despite our efforts. When he did finally regain his tongue, the first thing he said was . . ."

* * *

"_I can't do this."_

_Hawkeye and Antley both snapped their eyes to the bowed blonde head, then glanced nervously at each other. The Lieutenant had been fearing this break-down from Edward. With everything loaded onto his shoulders in the last few weeks, it was inevitable that the weight of the load he bore would eventually snap him. And, though she could not take some of the burden off of him, she had already vowed, no matter what, to help him through it._

"_I . . . I _can't_ do this," he repeated shakily and looked up at her through his bangs. His eyes were wide and bloodshot from unshed tears, his pupils constricted. "Not now. It . . . it's too much, Hawkeye."_

_Her brows drew together in sympathy and she murmured, "Edward . . ."_

_The alchemist swallowed and sniffed and grinned in a self-depreciating way. "I know that I'm such a coward for running from this. It's my fault this is happening to me—that _all of this_ is happening to me—and the only thing that I can do is tuck my tail between my legs and run like a fucking coward." And with that last venomous spit, Edward crumpled—he hunched forward over his own knees and covering his eyes with his flesh hand, his whole body quivering erratically._

_Hawkeye relinquished a low, worried noise to the air of the examination room and made to step forward and comfort the boy; however, a rustling of cloth and a gentle hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to see that Antley had moved in front of Edward, his brow creased with the same anxiousness as her own undoubtedly was, and squatted down before the sitting boy. "What do you want to do, Edward?" he asked quietly, head tilted and ducked down to see what he could of the alchemist's face behind the blonde fringe._

_It took Ed a few tries to get control enough over his emotions to actually answer the doctor. "I've," he paused to sniffle, "heard that there's . . . a surgery . . . or something?"_

_Out of the corner of her eye, Hawkeye saw Antley's shoulders and back tense, but his voice remained calm and professional when he asked, "You mean like an abortion?"_

_The blonde head sniffed and bobbed up and down in a shallow nod._

_Antley regarded the boy for several quiet seconds, disappointment written over every feature of his face, then sighed and pushed himself up with a groan. "Surgery of any kind is dangerous, Edward—I guess you already know that. But with _this_ . . . and you being what you are . . . I don't even know if it's possible."_

_The Lieutenant watched the way that, at this news, the ex-Fullmetal's uneven shoulders slumped and he drew his knees up awkwardly to his chest. She swallowed thickly and—because she had made a promise to herself to look after him and help him through this all, and because she never broke a promise—she turned to Antley and asked, "What about a surgery to go in and—" She floundered a bit. "—remove the uterus? Or whatever it is that's inside of him?"_

_Edward lifted his face from his crossed arms; the sandy-haired doctor frowned and looked askance at her. "You mean like a hysterectomy instead of an abortion?" he asked, voice low. _

_Hawkeye took a moment to consider, then nodded. "Yes," she told the doctor and, against her better judgment, continued. "That will not only terminate the fetus, but will also remove all of the reproductive organs that Edward is not meant to have." She glanced over at Edward, who looked extremely grateful._

_Antley closed his eyes with a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose beneath the nosepiece of his glasses. "It isn't that simple, Lieutenant," he murmured, turning to look at her fully. "I'm a general practitioner; I have a background in pediatrics and obstetrics, but I'm _not_ a surgeon—I cannot operate on him. And it's not like you can just take Edward to the nearest hospital and ask them to give him a hysterectomy." He took a deep breath and continued on more calmly, "Lieutenant, it might not seem like such a huge leap, but surgeons and _doctors_ are very different. I know of few surgeons, if any, who I would trust to see Edward's case and not . . . not seek some sort of personal gain from it."_

_A frown creased Hawkeye's smooth brow and Ed made a distressed sound. The doctor's mouth pulled down ever so slightly at the corners and he lowered his gaze to his patient. "Edward," he said, lifting his hands as though to set them on the blonde's shoulders; they hovered in the air for several seconds, then were drawn back to the doctor's sides. Hawkeye couldn't tell which of the two men looked more helpless then. Antley swallowed hard and tried again. "Edward, you know there _are_ other options. Have you considered adoption or—"_

"_You don't understand, Antley. I have to get rid of this thing _now_!" the teenager snarled, teeth bared and golden eyes flashing dangerously._

_Antley physically __flinched__; however, he had dealt with this Edwardian monster once before and knew to stand his ground in the face of it. Lifting his hand once again, the doctor reached forward and tenderly set his palm on the top of the teen's blonde head, gently shushing him—Hawkeye didn't deny that she was surprised Edward let him get away with it. She had half-expected the doctor to lose his hand._

_Bending slightly at the waist, his white coat pulling at his shoulders and riding up his arms, Antley lowered his head down to look into the alchemist's eyes. "I know what you're going through," he spoke soothingly, gingerly rubbing his hand back and forth across the bowed head._

_Ed—as Hawkeye had originally expected—didn't tolerate this treatment for long. He growled and slapped the comforting hand away with his flesh arm, sparing the physician the sting of his automail. "You have no _idea_, Antley, what I am going through, so don't _assume_ that you do," he hissed, his voice low and gravely from tears. _

_The sandy-haired man let the offended hand hang suspended there for several seconds, then sighed, straightened, and tucked it into his coat pocket. "I might not know the specifics, Edward, but . . ." Antley paused and Hawkeye watched as a deeper sorrow than someone like him should have to bear entered into his hazel eyes. He leant forward and whispered, "But I know what it's like to hate myself . . . and to hate my baby."_

_If Antley had been expecting a reaction from Edward, he was sorely disappointed. His head remained bowed, the golden eyes unfocused. The doctor sighed and straightened his stance once again. There was regret and worry etched into every line of his face as he looked down at the unresponsive teen and, when he turned to speak to Hawkeye, it came through in his voice._

"_It would be AMA," he said slowly, "and, frankly, against my gut feeling in general. But . . . if this is what Edward wants, then as his doctor I am obligated to help him. I'm young, as far as doctors go, and don't have that many connections, but I do have a colleague who I think might be willing to help him." He paused and lowered his hazel eyes back to Edward. _"_If you're sure you want to go through with it."_

* * *

"What did he say?" Roy asked, leaning forward to rest his chin on his good palm. His tea was down to the dregs and swirled them absently, trying to read his fortune at the bottom like his mother had taught him as a child.

Hawkeye was frowning—the Colonel couldn't see her, but he could just tell. "It was the oddest thing," she murmured and he glanced up at her. "He sat there for what seemed like forever. Then he just . . . said no."

Roy blinked. "He said 'no'?" he repeated after her, skepticism apparent in his voice.

The blonde nodded. "But he sounded tired and defeated—almost as if someone had talked him out of it."

The dark-haired alchemist regarded her for a long while, watching her swill her own dregs around at the bottom of her white mug absent-mindedly, before sighing and turning to look up at the ceiling. "He's gotten quiet," he murmured. "Maybe he fell and knocked himself unconscious."

Hawkeye sighed heavily. "Sir, permission to speak freely?" his subordinate said sharply.

It wasn't _really_ a question, Roy knew. Without looking back at her, the man chuckled dryly and asked her, "When have I ever given you the impression that you had to speak to me otherwise?"

There was a short pause—and he felt her smile at his back—then she spoke. Her voice was low and serious, but somehow still warm and protective. Roy knew that she only sounded like this when she was giving advice or comforting someone. The last time he had heard it had been at Hughes' funeral. "Edward is in a vulnerable state right now, sir. You have a younger sister, so I know that you've been around a pregnant woman before. I want you to be even more delicate around him than you were around your mother. I want you to take care of his needs as if they were your own. I want you to make me a promise, Roy."

Roy Mustang's gaze had gradually lowered from the ceiling to the floor, but it was only at those words when he finally turn back to look her in the eye.

"Over his life, Edward has been through more than either you or I could ever endure and don't you deny that. Except for those scant years he had back in Resembool, his life has been a cesspool and in the past few weeks, he's lost more than just Alphonse—he's lost what little trust and security he had in the world. So, promise me . . . _promise me_." Hawkeye let her eyes drop to examine the mug clutched in her trembling hands and her voice went down to barely a whisper. "Roy, Edward Elric's life has been _hell_ . . . so _promise_ me that you'll try to keep these next few months from being the _worst _in his life."

Something in the Colonel's chest tightened inextricably, making it hard to breathe and almost impossible to move. It took all of his willpower, but Roy was able to reach across the table and cover the top of Hawkeye's hands with his uninjured one. She looked up at him and he smiled and worked his throat.

"I'll try," he promised.

* * *

"_What do you think you're doing, Brother?"_

_I'm fixing this. I'm paying for my mistake. Equivalent Exchange._

"_How? How is _murdering_ your _baby _equivalent?"_

_Think about it, Al. I only lost my ability to do circle-less alchemy whenever I got pregnant. If I'm not pregnant, then . . . then that means that I'll get my powers back. When that happens, that Bastard will have to give me back my watch and title and then I can find some way to bring you back. It's the only way._

"_. . . That's bullshit and you know it."_

_A-Al!_

"_No, Brother. You shut up and listen to me. You think that ending this pregnancy will get you your abilities back—well, what if you're wrong? What if it's not the pregnancy causing this? What then? You end an innocent life for _nothing_? What _then_? Could you _live_ with yourself?"_

_Alphonse, I—_

"_You're such a hypocrite, Ed."_

_W-what?_

"_You told me once that a life doesn't equal another life. Yet here you are considering sacrificing one life in the off-chance it might get me back. It's pointless, Brother! I don't want to come back—even if it was in the _flesh_—if it cost another person their life. I thought that's why we were searching for another way . . ."_

_Oh, Al . . ._

"_It's eight months, Brother. If you're right and this loss of power was caused by your pregnancy, then after eight more months you should get your abilities back. Just wait . . . If you do this—if you _kill_ your baby—you will never forgive yourself. You will regret it for the rest of your life. So just . . . wait. Have the baby. I've waited four years to get my body back. I can wait a little longer."_

_Al . . . I'm just . . . I feel so lost, Al. I'm alone in the dark._

"_No, you're not. I'm here, Brother. We're _all_ here. We'll share our strength with you and light your path through the darkness."_

_. . . Tell me what to do, Al. What should I do?_

"_Get up. _Get up_, square your shoulders . . . and move forward."_

* * *

The polite knock on his door startled Edward out of his reverie. He sat up abruptly, the pillow falling limply from his arms, and called out in a hoarse voice, "C-come in?"

To his undeniable relief, the person who entered the room was Hawkeye—she looked worn and tired, though she hid it remarkably well, and was holding a mug in her hands. Toeing the door closed behind her, she wandered in—ever mindful of the debris littering the floor—and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"It's tea," she said as she handed him the warm mug. "Be careful; it's still hot."

Edward accepted it with a grateful nod and a mumbled, "Thanks," before taking a hearty gulp. It tasted odd and had an almost gritty texture to it—the alchemist winced. "What's in this?" he asked her, coughing and pulling a face.

"Ginger," Hawkeye answered absently, examining the comforter. "It will help with the nausea. You should drink it more often." As Edward grimaced and went back to drinking his tea, the Lieutenant finished smoothing out the bedspread and went on to look about the room. "I see that you've redecorated," she noted.

Edward grinned in an embarrassed way and reached up to scratch at the base of his braid. "Yeah," he chuckled. "Sorry about that." Al huffed in the back of his mind and he shushed him.

He really _was_ sorry for the way he had been acting lately—even more childish and impulsive than his brother accused him of normally being—but, somehow, he wasn't sorry for what he had done. Whenever this bizarre reasoning had first occurred to Ed, it had befuddled him with its complexity and he had actually gotten a migraine from thinking about it too hard . . . so he had simply marked it as something that just _was_ and pushed it away into the dark corners of his subconscious. That was the easiest way to deal with it.

The bed swayed and Edward glanced up to see that Hawkeye had stood and was now collecting the loose scraps of clothing that had been scattered about the room. The blonde teen watched her, hesitating over whether or not he should get up and help her clean up the mess he had made. In the end, he didn't. He remained on the bed, sipping at his lukewarm, gingery tea, and staring down at his crossed legs.

"Edward," he heard Hawkeye say as she noisily pushed a battered drawer back into its slot. His golden eyes lifted to her, giving the woman his full attention. "I know that this is going to be awkward for you," she told him, calmly folding a dingy shirt and replacing it in the drawer. "But you are going to have to realize that this whole experience it going to be just as hard on the Colonel."

Edward scoffed and looked away at the wall, gripping his hands around the mug and digging automail fingers into his flesh—he wanted to focus on that instead of the feeling of betrayal burning in his chest.

He heard the quiet shifting of cloth and the Lieutenant continued. "Edward, I've spoken to him. He's going to see to your needs to the best of his abilities, but you are going to have to cut him some slack." The cushioned click of heels on carpet approached his bed and the mattress dipped slightly as Hawkeye sat back down. Ed's eyes remained determinedly fixed on the far wall. "I'm not asking you to like him. I'm only asking you to be civil." A gentle hand rested on his flesh shoulder. "Can you do that?"

Al eventually grew tired of Ed's staring contest with the wall and politely prodded his brother into saying something. Edward huffed.

". . . I'll try," he lied.

* * *

**Okies. Just one or two things to point out: **

**AMA means 'against medical advice'. My beta thought I should mention that. Also, I had a reviewer last chapter point out to me the difference between 'blonde' and 'blond'. Yes, I knew this, but I just preferred blonde with an 'e', because it sounds more European and I like to spell things as such . . . Stupid, I know, but that's who I am. (sweatdrops)**

**And . . . class restarts next Tuesday, but I'm gonna try and get as much for the next chapter typed before that, so that y'all can get it **_**sometime**_** before the semester ends. (cries)**


	10. Advent of the Dragon

**(peeks in cautiously) Hello, my loyal readers; long time, no see, huh? (has sharp objects thrown at her) Hey, **_**hey**_**! I'm trying as hard as I can to get these chapters out fast, but still have them be **_**good**_**—my wonderiferous beta, Staehli (Fae Elric) has been a big help with that, so give her a giant hug next time y'all see her, okay?**

**The next couple of chapters are important, but kind of boring, so please bear with me.**

**I'll also be introducing some OCs in this chapter; for those of y'all who've already met them, please wade through the introductions and explanations if you don't mind—their pasts may be slightly altered from the ones they have in **_**Family.**_

**Disclaimer: I own them. Yes, I was lying to you all those chapters ago when I said that I didn't. I, Lina of BMF, own the Fullmetal Alchemist characters. (lawyer taps on shoulder and hands over a lawsuit) . . . Aw, shit.**

**WARNING****: There is a sex scene in this chapter. If you don't think that your fragile mind can bear the weight of explicit sex, then please just skip the italicized portion near the middle of the chapter. Because the last thing that I want is for LF to get reported and deleted, I'll also be switching the rating from T to M, despite my reservations on the matter.**

* * *

"_It's about family and life."_

-Ozzie Smith

* * *

**Chapter X: Advent of the Dragon**

The loud pounding on his bedroom door rousted Roy Mustang from a fitful slumber perforated by memories that were only really memories in the daylight. He was almost grateful to the person for waking him from the visions of sand, fire and ash, black, peeling flesh, and haunted eyes, even as he glanced over at the clock on his bedside table and caught sight of the time.

2:32am.

Groaning in annoyance, he threw the covers back and stumbled out of bed, accidentally stubbing his toe on the corner of his nightstand in the process. Hissing out a strangled curse in Xingian, Roy hobbled over to the door and threw it open. He blinked blearily down at the disheveled blonde standing there. "Ed?" he asked uncertainly, his voice thick and gravely from sleep.

The teen's hair was down, dingy-looking and clinging to his shoulders and neck, and his face looked somewhat flushed, even in the sparse light. He had his arm raised to knock again and that caused the hem of his black tank to ride up just above the waistband of the pajama pants Hawkeye had supplied him with—Roy thought he caught a glimpse of swollen belly peeking out from beneath the folds of cloth, but the teen had lowered his arm and had self-consciously tugged the hem down before the dark-haired alchemist could be sure.

The boy's eyes were focused intently on one of the buttons of Roy's blue pajama top. The Flame had noticed that Edward had taken to doing that as of late—directing his hormonal ire at something on Roy's person, rather than directly _at_ him. Maybe so that he could get away with glaring at the man without having to _actually_ look him in the eye.

Roy supposed that this sullen, barely-speaking Edward was better than the one who had been living at his house for the first three weeks of their stay together. In that unbearably long amount of time, Ed had refused to speak to or look at him. He had _barely_ tolerated his presence—most of the time, if Roy had entered a room, the blonde would hastily retreat into another.

It had been beginning to grate on Roy's nerves.

After all, it wasn't as though the two of them spent all that much time together anyway. For most of the day, Roy was stuck behind his desk, signing mundane reports (under the promise of a slow, painful death if he didn't, compliments of Hawkeye) and dealing with idiotic soldiers and old generals (most of whom had sticks so far up their asses, he was surprised they didn't spit splinters whenever they spoke to him). And Ed . . .

Well, truth be told, he hadn't been sure what Edward had been doing all day long for the first week of his stay. In fact, it wasn't until Hawkeye had informed him in her usual clipped tones how the blonde alchemist was going off to the public library every day to get research done that he even realized that Ed was leaving the house.

This fact had unnerved and agitated him for a brief time—a pregnant, vulnerable Edward walking around without someone _(a fiercely-protective, seven-foot tall suit of armour) _to watch his back made Roy worry over his safety. And not only in the physical sense. He didn't want Ed walking around for the whole world to see. The fact was that the teen would eventually gain the tumulous tummy that Antley swore up and down would begin to show soon and Roy didn't want Ed going far from the house and letting that infamous Edwardian temper get him into trouble and _god_, what if someone_ saw_?

What if they_ found out_?

Neither he nor Edward could afford to let something of this magnitude get out for public consumption. The consequences would be unfathomable.

Not only would he be utterly humiliated and kicked out of the military without the slightest regret of Bradley or anyone else, but he would more than likely be arrested—Edward was only half a year away from being legal, but that mattered little in the eyes of the law. And, even if he wasn't locked away for being a "baby-toucher", the chances of him ever getting another date in his life was considerably low. Finding people who were truly discrete about his . . . _personal tastes_ was hard enough—he was sure that he'd never find someone who could deal with that, on top of the fact that he'd (_his stomach plummeted at the thought_) seduced his underage subordinate.

And Edward . . . Edward would be placed in a lab and experimented on like the dog he was too young to have ever been. He would be degraded, shamed, and hurt and when (_if_) his baby was born, they'd rip it away from him to perform test after test on it as well. Roy was sure that the boy wouldn't even get the chance to look at it before they stole it from him. Then, they'd either examine his internal workings to their hearts content and let him bleed out on the table or they'd sew him up, throw him in a cage, and allow him to live out the remainder of his days there, like some sort of animal.

Roy Mustang refused to think about that and was determined to fight tooth and nail to keep anything like that from happening. For both their sakes.

He owed Ed and his baby that much, at least.

And so, the idea of the blonde wandering around by himself in broad daylight wasn't exactly the most appealing to Roy; however, when he had voiced his concerns to Hawkeye (because Edward would rather throw himself under a truck than hear the man's voice at that point), she had helpfully informed him that she had already discussed it with the ex-major.

Edward, much to Roy's surprise, had agreed with the Lieutenant's request for him to stay indoors and out of sight for the last several months of his pregnancy—he had claimed that he wasn't stupid and that he wouldn't run the risk of the military finding out his secrets. Not when he still had so much work to do.

That statement had deeply concerned both Roy and Hawkeye, but Edward hadn't cared to elaborate any further to the blonde lieutenant.

In any case, Edward had promised Hawkeye that he wouldn't be going out in public once his stomach became undeniably obvious, but until that point, he didn't want to be holed up in the (as he so affectionately named him) Bastard's house all day if he could help it. Roy didn't like it much, but what could he do but wait? Wait for Edward to come around, regain his senses, and talk to him about what he needed.

And speaking of Edward . . .

The boy was still standing just outside the threshold of his bedroom, staring pointedly at his shirtfront and shuffling his feet uncomfortably. "Edward?" Roy asked again, reaching up to rub tiredly at his face. "Something wrong?"

It had been one week to the day since Ed had first begun to speak to him again; the Flame had actually been relieved when the blonde had stomped downstairs and passed him in the living room, calling him a "fucking bastard" over his shoulder. He had been _relieved_. Because, up until that point, despite the boy's whiplash-inducing exits from rooms that Roy happened to be in and the cacophony of slamming doors all throughout the house, Roy hadn't been sure he had existed as a person in Edward's mind. He had been there, yes—but more as an annoyance on the periphery of his conscious. An end table you stubbed your toe on all the time or a rug you were always tripping over. Not a person. Not until that moment.

And after that point, the 'endearments' just kept coming.

Edward would stalk through the house, grumbling and complaining beneath his breath about nothing in particular and calling Roy obscenities. He didn't seek the Flame out and he _certainly_ couldn't hold down a civilized conversation with him (when could he ever?); however, he would sulkily answer yes-or-no questions, throwing in a colourful name here and there for flavour.

_This_ however—this waking him up in the dead of the night—this was something new.

Roy's stomach suddenly lurched at the thought that Ed may be going into labour; however, his better judgment, even in his quasi-awake state, squashed that idea quickly. Even he knew that no human being gave birth after only three months of pregnancy.

Even if they were a sixteen-year-old male alchemist.

Ed was still standing there, staring down at his own mismatched feet now. Roy scowled and was about to encourage him into speaking once again, when the teen loudly cleared his throat—a startling sound in the near-quiet of the huge house.

"I'm hungry."

The voice was so quiet and plaintive that, for a split second, Roy was actually shocked. That voice should have belonged to anyone but Edward Elric. The Flame blinked and swallowed. "H-hungry?" he repeated, uncertain.

There was a pause, then a light nod. "Yeah," the blonde said softly. "You don't have anything to eat."

Roy frowned. _Not surprising_, he thought to himself somewhat sourly. It was only a few hours into Friday morning and the dark-haired alchemist usually didn't fill his pantry until Saturday afternoon. Ed had been eating him out of house-and-home as of late and, since Roy only kept the bare essentials to begin with, the Flame didn't doubt that his kitchen was now as close to empty as it could possibly get. He sighed and glanced back at his clock.

2:45am. Roy groaned and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even more than sleep already had. Hawkeye was going to _kill_ him when he fell asleep on his paperwork later.

Ed still wasn't looking at him.

Sighing once again, he reached out to prompt Ed into moving with a touch on his shoulder. "C'mon," Roy grudgingly acquiesced. "Let's see if we can't find you something to eat."

He was too tired to be hurt when the blonde jerked away from his touch.

* * *

Fuhrer King Bradley moved about his kitchen with silent proficiency, measuring out coffee grounds into the fancy stove-top percolator that some distant relative of his wife had brought them as a wedding present. It was still dark out and his family was sleeping soundly; he, however, had been woken by a strange yet familiar sensation just behind his left eye and couldn't go back to sleep until it was dealt with.

Pouring water from the tap into the silver coffee pot, the dark-haired man set it onto one of the burners of his stove top and turned on the heat. Bradley stood back and sighed. As a homunculus, he didn't need to consume anything other than red stones, but somehow, making and drinking coffee always seemed to calm his agitated nerves.

An odd throw-back to his days as a human, he supposed.

As the percolator croaked and grumbled happily, filling the large room with the refreshing aroma of coffee, it became obvious to Bradley that he was now no longer alone in his kitchen.

"Nice outfit, Pride," a familiar voice purred softly. Sultry. Cat-like.

"Ducky, ducky!" said another quickly after that, high and sharp. Excited. A child's simplistic joy.

Bradley frowned and turned to face his guests, ignoring their comments about the moronic pajamas that his son had picked out for him. Lust was seated on the granite countertop near the sink, her arms crossed under her impressive bust; Gluttony was standing near her feet, grinning idiotically, the sausage-like fingers of his right hand clutching the hem of her dress.

Pride eyed them for a second, then turned back to the gurgling percolator. "What is it that could be so important that you couldn't wait until a reasonable hour of the day to tell me?" he asked evenly, retrieving a bone china cup and saucer from his cupboard.

"What're you complaining for?" asked Lust. "It's not like you actually have to sleep or anything."

The voluptuous Sin was on Pride's blind side, but he didn't turn his head to look at her. "Just get on with it," he told her, a light growl in his voice that sent most political officials running.

". . .Scar's on the move," she said simply, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear.

The coffee urn growled.

"Oh?" he asked unconcernedly, spooning liberal amounts of powdered creamer into his dark coffee.

"Yes." Lust looked down at her own knees, then away. Several seconds passed in silence—the only sound being the soft _clink-clink-clink_ from Bradley stirring his coffee—before she sardonically offered, "You sound terribly concerned."

The eldest Sin among them didn't respond right away; he finished preparing his cup, and then strolled over into the impressive dining room and took a seat at the table there. He knew that the kitchen staff arrived early to get breakfast started and didn't want his siblings (especially the more voracious of the two) there whenever they showed up—the last thing he needed was trying to explain to his spouse why yet _another_ member of the staff had mysteriously departed in the dead of night.

He waited, sipping on his coffee, until he heard the tell-tale click of high-heeled boots and the lumbering gate of someone far less graceful approaching from the kitchen. "To answer your earlier question," he said as they came up to his side, keeping his voice low, "I'm more concerned about what Master had to say about the development with the Fullmetal brat."

Lust crossed her arms and leant one hip on the side of the table. She didn't look pleased at all. "It doesn't make any sense. She knows that he can't do alchemy anymore—at least the kind that we _need_ him to do—but she insists that we keep an eye on him, regardless. I just don't understand it."

Gluttony made a wet gurgling sound. "Lust, I'm hungry," he whined, pulling on her dress.

She waved him off. "Hush, we'll get you something to eat later."

The large homunculus settled, sucking on the finger he seemed to have permanently lodged in the side of his wide mouth, but didn't look any happier.

"Does Master know why he is suddenly without the ability to perform circle-less alchemy?" Pride asked, turning his head to look at the two of them.

Lust scoffed. "It looks like the idiot tried to bring his brother back from the dead. He opened up the Gate . . . and it took his power and knowledge from him. At least," she shrugged elegantly, "that's what Master said had happened."

"I take it that wasn't part of the plan then."

Lust frowned. "No. Most definitely not."

The Furher turned back to his coffee and hummed thoughtfully. He may have been a creature born of alchemy, but he knew very little about it—either way, he was more than certain that if the Gate took something in exchange for something else, it wasn't likely to give it back. The change in the Elric would be a permanent one unless he willingly re-opened the Gate for a _third_ time and asked it for his ability back. Not likely.

Pride sighed. "So, in other words," he said, more to himself than his cohorts, "Elric is useless to us now. We have to move on to someone else."

"He can still do alchemy and is apparently continuing his search for the Stone. But, yes. It looks like we'll have to start over with someone else." The female Sin growled in annoyance. "Stupid child," she grumbled, pushing away from the table. "Ruining all of our hard work."

"Stupid! _Stupid!_" chortled Gluttony, his spirits reignited.

"Scar still looks like our next best bet," Lust spoke, her voice quiet. "With his brother's arm, already filled with all those souls, he stands a much better chance of creating the Stone than any of those other two-bit alchemists we've tried luring in. If Fullmetal is no longer an option for us, then we should focus on him."

Pride nodded. "Is he being followed?"

"Wrath is currently tailing him and Master wants you to send Sloth, as well," the Sin said, sounding skeptical as to her Master's choice of tracker. "And if things start to look bad, Envy will join them—I'm not sure where he is now, though."

"And what about you?" Pride asked, sipping at his brew. He wasn't truly interested. Their Master positioned them as she saw fit; where the pawns ended up was no concern of the king's.

Lust sighed. "Gluttony and I will be keeping an eye on the ex-Fullmetal and reporting back to Master if there's any change. It may interest you to know that he is currently residing with that Flame Colonel you seem to be having so much trouble with."

Bradley swallowed the last bit of his lukewarm coffee and set the empty cup down in its saucer. "Trust me, Lust, you haven't told me anything I don't already know," he said to her with a smile, tapping the patch over his left eye.

The younger Sin curled her lip and started towards the kitchen, calling Gluttony after her. "Coming, Lust," he answered in a sing-song voice, trailing after her. He had just caught up to her and was skipping along merrily at her side when the voice of their brother reached them.

"Oh, Lust?"

She stopped just shy of the kitchen entryway and looked over her shoulder at him. His back was to her. "Which way is Scar heading, might I ask?"

"Northeast," she told him after a moment's stony pause. "Towards Liore."

* * *

The kitchen wasn't exactly _bare_.

When Roy had opened his cabinets, he had expected to find nothing but empty boxes and a few scattered crumbs as testament of the food that had once been there; that, however, was not the case. He found plenty of food.

Just none that Edward would eat.

The blonde in question was currently standing on the other side of his kitchen, leaning against the nearest wall with his arms folded across his chest. Even if Roy hadn't looked at him in the past few minutes, he knew that Edward was glaring at his back. It was one of those sixth sense things that he had picked up in the army—he knew when he was being watched.

The Colonel scowled, but swallowed down any bitter comment he thought might escape his throat and continued to dig through his icebox. He was looking for something that wouldn't reduce the blonde to wordless gagging upon sight or smell—no luck thus far. And he was running out of kitchen to search.

"How about this?" Roy asked patiently, pulling out a frost-encrusted container that he was pretty sure was some home-made stew from the last time his mother had come to visit. He turned a bit and held it out for Ed to examine.

The lift of one dubious golden eyebrow said all there was to say.

Roy sighed and tossed the frozen container back into the icebox. "Ed," he told the blonde levelly, pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation, "I've searched this kitchen from top to bottom. There's nothing else here for you to eat."

"I know," Edward answered immediately, mumbling. "I _told_ you that."

"Well, what do you want me to _do_, Edward?" he growled out in frustration. Roy was not only exhausted, but also thoroughly annoyed, and his arm was throbbing painfully—he'd had the cast removed, per doctor's orders, and the barely-mended bones were shrieking their complaint. He had already decided that he'd make _anything_ that the teen wanted if he got to go back to bed. "_What_ am I meant to—?"

The dark-haired alchemist stopped.

He realized too late that it had been a mistake to look up at Edward then. He had looked up and had locked eyes—_locked eyes_—with the other alchemist for the first time in nearly a month . . . and all the anger, impatience, and fortitude had seeped right out of him and pooled on the tiled floor of his kitchen. In their place, guilt and self-loathing came flooding in.

Edward held his gaze for what felt like an eternity (but what in reality was probably only a couple of minutes), determined gold boring into charcoal black. He forcefully swallowed and took a long, deep breath through his mouth, like a person trying hard not to throw up. Then he spoke:

"I think I want some ice-cream."

Roy blinked and gulped once. "Ice-cream?" he asked and cursed the tremor in his voice.

"Yeah. Ice-cream."

* * *

Edward listened to the front door quietly shut and waited until he heard the car engine turn over to let the serpentine grin slither across his face.

Al sighed in his head as the car pulled away from the house, the sound of the engine growing fainter. _"Brother,"_ his voice said warningly, letting his sibling know that he wasn't at all pleased with what was going on. _"What you're doing is not only incredibly _rude_, but also quite stupid and pointless."_

Ed huffed. And, since the Bastard wasn't there to hear him talking to himself, he answered Al aloud. "Deserves it."

"_How so?"_ his younger brother asked as Ed left the kitchen, made his way through the dining room, across the small foyer, and into the living room to flop down on the couch. Really, the Bastard's house had the most pointless floorplan that Ed had ever seen in his life—the whole thing was basically a big horseshoe with right angles. Ed frowned. Al was still talking to him. _"—nd you said that you didn't blame him, that there were _two_ people involved with what happened, but now you're just being a big hypocrite and I—"_

"Alphonse," he said. His voice was soft, but still stern and it cut off his baby brother's tirade. "Yes, I know that I absolved him of all that and yes, I know that the blame doesn't rest solely on his shoulders, but . . ." The blonde trailed off momentarily, seemingly lost in thought, before shrugging his shoulders and lying back on the white sofa. "Bastard still deserves it."

Al made a sound of absolute frustration. _"You're so stubborn! Y'know, sometimes I wish that I was still alive _and_ in the armour—that way, I could just pick you up by the collar and __shake you!"_

* * *

The afternoon sun was streaming warm through the ceiling-tall windows, casting pools of flitting light across the floors and walls of Central HQ; young children were just getting out of school for the day and their happy sounds could be heard even through the thick stone walls.

Havoc sighed around his soggy toothpick—new replacement for the unlit cigarette Hawkeye wouldn't allow him to have when indoors—and made his way down the corridor towards the office. God, how he envied those kids. Nothing but ice-cream and lolli-pops and fucking rainbows for as far as they could see into their futures.

He remembered being that way once: totally care-free and innocent. He could remember Sunday afternoons in the park with his mother and the occasional fishing trips with his dad; he could easily recall the family reunions, where the only thing he had to worry about was being cornered and having his cheeks mercilessly squeezed by one or more of his menacing aunts; he could remember his grandmother, smelling like sandalwood and jasmine, reading old fables to him, back when he could sit on her lap and fit easily underneath her chin.

But that was before.

Before the academy and basic training. Before Ishbal and before his military career, a streak of bitter ambiguity stretched out before him as far as the eye could see. It was before his father's heart attack and his mother's gently slipping away in the night; it was before he had turned thirty, a mere lieutenant in the volatile Amestrinian army . . . and all by his _damn_ self.

He sighed again. It was moments like these that he truly regretted the path he had chosen.

_Goddamn kids._

Havoc was approaching the office, now feeling more than a little depressed and already planning on hitting the nearest bar as soon as six o'clock rolled around, when he heard voices from within. It sounded like Hawkeye and the Colonel were having a discussion; even though it wasn't especially abnormal for Hawkeye to be speaking to her commanding officer—usually while simultaneously snapping the safety off of her pistol—Havoc pulled up short and stopped just outside the closed office door.

The act of conversation might not have been that unusual, but what was being _discussed_ . . . That was what Havoc found to be truly odd.

"—on't think it would be especially wise, sir, or beneficial to your career if you were to kill Mr. Elric in his sleep."

Well, that was Lieutenant Hawkeye. And the groan that was issued after she had spoken could only have been the Colonel.

"Three times," he said, voice muffled. "I left my goddamn house _three different times_ because the _brat_ kept changing his mind about the flavour of ice-cream he fucking wanted. Do you even know how hard it is to find an ice-cream parlor open at that time of night?"

Havoc quirked his eyebrows up in amused confusion. He didn't often hear the Colonel curse when he was in the office. Of course, he didn't have to be _Hawkeye_ to notice how tense and completely wiped the man had looked when he had come in that morning—he wasn't really surprised to find out that he had been up all night. The fact that it was because he was seeing to the Boss's sudden craving for ice cream . . . Well, that was a little different.

The lieutenant knew in an off-handed sort of way that the young blonde was gonna be staying with Mustang for awhile after his disbanding from the military, at least until he got back on his feet again. He and the other guys had thought this kind of strange, but none of them was quite able to pluck up the courage (or stupidity) to actually ask why this was so.

Breda had scratched his chin and said in a conspiratorial voice that it was probably so that the Boss could stay in Central and get more research done—after all, there were no big libraries back in Rizy-bull. Fuery had sighed and surmised that it was because Ed didn't have a _home_ to go back to in _Resembool_; Falman had agreed with both of them and thrown in that, even if he did have one, he probably wouldn't have gone back anyway, because without his brother there with him, it wouldn't have felt right.

And so he was staying with the Colonel until he could get a place of his own in Central.

Somehow, even with all of their prophetic reasoning, something about the whole affair just didn't sit right with Havoc.

Hawkeye was talking now. She sounded amused.

"I would expect there to be someplace, sir, for all the other expectant mothers out there."

Havoc blinked.

* * *

_Deft hands—fingers calloused from pyrotex cloth and a war that he hadn't known—wandered down his sides, finding his naked hips and settling there; a tongue that was not his own was in his mouth, exploring it with almost agonizing thoroughness and he gagged in his inexperienced urge to reciprocate; panted puffs of breath were hot on his face and the feel of bare, sweat-sheened skin clashing against his own, like flint striking steel, sent sparks dancing across his nerves._

_Edward moaned into the mouth covering his and bucked experimentally, eager to _do something_. He was admittedly young and new to matters such as these, but he still wanted to do more in this union than lay there trembling and twisting his fingers in the sheets. He wanted to taste and feel and not think. He wanted to _move_. He wanted . . ._

_His partner's lips had left his mouth and traveled across his jaw, scouring a hot trail downwards and finding the fluttering pulse point on his jugular. Ed swallowed._

"_Mm- . . . Mustang?" The voice that tore itself from his throat was gravely, desperate, and full of desire. That couldn't have been _his_ voice, could it? He would never let himself sound so raw and vulnerable—not around anyone that wasn't Alphonse, anyway._

_Alphonse . . ._

No. _Edward felt his throat tighten painfully and he swallowed hard to keep the choked sob from escaping past his lips. _Please . . . please, not now. I just . . . I can't . . .

"_Ed?" came a soft voice from somewhere above him._

_The blonde teen opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and found Roy's flushed face hovering scant inches above his own; this startled him for a brief moment, but then he remembered where they both were and how very _naked_ they were. Roy was settled over him, his forearms resting on either side of the blonde halo on his pillow and supporting a good portion of his weight; however, they were still chest to chest and stomach to stomach. Ed's legs were spread wide and caught up in Roy's, and the man's arousal was pressed against his quivering belly, just below his navel._

_And suddenly, Edward's whole face was on _fire.

"_You okay?" Roy asked, sounding far more amused than he should have. Ed knew that the man was smirking, even if he couldn't work up the gumption to look him in the eyes right now. Instead, he scowled and turned his head to the side, focusing on the older alchemist's bicep. "Ed?" The voice had gone from teasing to concerned, and Edward felt fingers brushing back his bangs and settling on his temple. "Are you all right?"_

All right?_ The blonde closed his golden eyes and leaned his head forward until his forehead was resting against Roy's forearm, feeling the tremors running through the limb—they matched the ones coursing through his own body. _Am I all right?

_No._

_He was currently stripped and spread out beneath his commanding officer—a man who was using him every bit as much as Ed was using him; he was about to give up his virginity to someone that he did not love (did not even _like_, truth be told) . . . all because he was trying to forget about his guilt and his dead little brother for one night._

_No._

_He was definitely _not_ 'all right'._

"_. . . Do you want me to stop?" _

_The Colonel's voice had turned hushed and almost painful, as though it hurt the man to even think the words, let alone speak them aloud. Edward hesitated, but ended up slowly turning his head to look up at Mustang. His face was beaded with sweat and there was a light blush staining his porcelain cheeks; his dark eyes were heavy-lidded, but still swam with disquiet, regret, and sorrow. The fearful look that had been there earlier in the night was muted now, but still painfully present._

_Ed had swallowed and shaken his head before he had really even thought about how he wanted to respond to the man's genuinely concerned question. "No," he answered softly, averting his eyes to rest on one of Roy's clavicles. "No, I . . . I just . . ." Suddenly very awkward, Edward shifted his legs and coughed once, swallowing hard before he tried again. "I just, I don't know really what . . . I read . . . stupid library book . . . that it, um . . . that it hurts?" he murmured._

_His golden gaze kept shifting anxiously back and forth between Roy's chin, his dark eyes, and his collarbone . . . but somewhere along the way, he saw the older alchemist blink once and then smile gently. "It can," he told the prone blonde honestly and inclined his head to rest their foreheads together. "But if you're relaxed and your partner knows what they're doing, it can be a very . . . _pleasant_ experience."_

_When their foreheads had touched, Edward had looked up and his golden eyes had snagged on Roy's onyx ones, locking there. He furrowed his brow and licked his lips, trying to banish the unsure look from his face—he knew that the look was there, because he certainly _felt_ unsure. If he backed out now, would Roy send him away? He really didn't want to be alone tonight._

_Roy moved back a bit and tilted his head to one side slightly, most certainly catching the look that Edward was trying to hide, if what he said next was any indication. "We can stop, if you want. I mean . . . sex isn't something that you can take back later, if you're not sure—so I want you to be sure."_

_The blonde bit his lower lip and asked suddenly, "I'm . . . I guess I'm not, really. But, um, you know what you're doing, right? I mean, you said that, um, if . . . if the partner knows what he's doing, then it won't hurt. So . . . do you know what you're doing?" Edward immediately regretted asking the question—a big part of him didn't want to know whether or not the Colonel had done this with other men before._

_Roy studied his face for a short moment, then smiled lightly and nodded. "I do. I would never hurt you, Edward. I promise."_

"_. . . Okay then," said Edward in a falsely cheery voice. He leant up and, because bastard's chin was the closest thing to him, he kissed him there and then flopped back down into the pillows, blushing. "So I have nothing to worry about."_

_Roy started at the chaste kiss applied to his chin, but quickly recovered and smiled down at his partner; cupping a blushing cheek in one hand, he leant down to claim his lips again._

_After that, the world dissolved into a blur of colours and sensations to Edward._

_There were fingers tangling in his hair and a hot mouth was trailing down his chest and stomach and . . . oh! . . . The back of his knee was resting on Roy's sweat-soaked shoulder, his flesh heel beating out a faint pattern against the man's shoulder blade, and he had no idea how it had gotten there . . . He grimaced and whimpered as slicked fingers twisted inside him, searching and finding a spot that made him shudder and writhe and . . . And then Roy was gripping his thighs, pressing forward and, suddenly, he was inside of him. _

_Edward's chest heaved and he gripped the sheets and he was _filled_—filled and whole, but not _complete_. Never complete. Not with this man or with anyone else in this world . . ._

_But, as Edward lay there—tangled in sheets that smelt of sandalwood, sweat, and ignition powder, his ankles locked against the small of his lover's back, Roy's thumbs pressing into his false pelvis and his cock fully seated inside him—he drew a shuddering breath and thought that this might be the closest he'd ever come in a long while._

_Roy stayed pressed against him like that, buried to the hilt, for several unbearable minutes and Ed's head swam with the desire for the bastard to _move_. The blonde alchemist knew that the man must have been giving him and his unaccustomed muscles time to adjust to the intrusion; he appreciated it, really he did, but right now, he was already horny, hard as a rock, and dripping pre-come onto his own belly and he wanted some fucking satisfaction._

"_Roy," he growled out._

_And just like that—just like the elusive magic word used to open the secret cave in the Ishballan tale told to him as a child or like the missing rune from an array—Roy began to move. Ed gasped out loud and clutched at the fitted sheets, his body arching up with each of the colonel's (surprisingly gentle) thrusts. It felt . . . well, _weird_, actually. _

_That was the only word Edward could use to describe it—the feel of someone else's dick moving fluidly in and out of him. It did hurt a little, burnt in all the wrong places, but that sensation was almost secondary to the tingling jolt of pleasure that lanced his spine every time Roy brushed up against his prostate; that feeling that made his toes curl, made his head snap back, and transmuted his stomach into a useless puddle of fluttering butterflies. The younger alchemist clawed at the sheets and listened in humiliation as his own wanton groans filled the room and mingled with his partner's heavy breaths and throaty moans—though, it wasn't until he felt one of Roy's hands leave his hip and settle over his pulsing cock that he let a half-choked wail escape his throat._

_Edward was riding a wave. It roiled in the pit of his stomach and swept down into his groin, slowly surging upwards and intent on dragging him with it. Each pump of Roy's fist and each thrust brought him closer to the precipice, closer to cresting that wave and seeing the golden rays of morning on the horizon. And then, quite suddenly . . . Edward gasped aloud as his whole body tightened around a single point and lifted itself off the bed in a graceful arch . . . The wave he was riding came crashing down right on top of him and then . . . then . . ._

Edward heaved a sigh into the hand he was using to prop up his face and watched as the rain trailed its way down his bedroom window in fat, serpentine bands. Running a metal hand over the light swelling at his midsection, he groaned and didn't bother fighting back a blush as he thought back over the events of that night, just eleven weeks previous.

It had been almost two months since he had last brought the incident to mind, tending to push the act of sex into the darker corners of his subconscious and focusing instead on the eternity of five minutes in which he had lost both his masculinity and the last of his hope. Somehow, that made him feel better.

_Somehow_, that made it _easier_.

But now . . . now he was nearing the beginning of his second trimester.

The guilt, anger, and sadness he had felt all through the first three months of his pregnancy hadn't lessened any, but there were now other, more lascivious thoughts beginning to take root. And Edward knew that he was a terrible person for letting it happen, but his hormones were all shot to hell and he just couldn't _stop_ the image of the Colonel—his body tight and lithe under his uniform; pale, scarred skin slick and salty with sweat—from clawing its way unbidden into his mind's eye.

Logically, Ed knew why it was happening. It was because—aside from the odd occasion with his own hand, a locked bathroom door firmly between himself and his baby brother—his night with the Bastard had been the only sexual experience he'd ever had and _damn the man for being so good at it_. It was the most erotic thing he had ever done and the horny part of his mind didn't care how completely _fucked up_ it was to be using it as a frame of reference for his traitorous libido.

Ed just wanted to cry from the unfairness of it all.

God, he hated hormones.

The blonde sighed again and was beginning to consider hurling himself out of the window, if only to give himself something else to think about, when he suddenly heard voices quietly filtering up from downstairs. This was somewhat surprising to him, since, insofar as he could ascertain, the Bastard didn't have people over—Hawkeye and Antley seemed to be the only exceptions to this rule, as far as Ed could tell. But those two were normally there to tend to his and the fetus's needs, not converse with the Bastard.

Besides, these voices didn't sound familiar.

His curiosity sufficiently piqued, Edward clambered awkwardly off of his bed and padded over to the bedroom door. Opening it and stepping out onto the second-floor landing that was jutting out above the living room, Ed began to hear the voices more clearly. There were two or three people; one of them was most definitely the Bastard—Ed could tell his smirking voice anywhere—and the others sounded like women.

_No big surprise there_, Ed thought rather sourly. Pulling his shirt down self-consciously over his tummy, the young man walked over to the landing banister and looked down into the living room. The voices were emanating from just inside the foyer, right beneath his feet, and Ed could now hear clearly what was being said:

"—oyce, darling, what happened to your arm? Who did this to you?" It was a woman speaking, her voice thick with an accent, and laced with concern and a hidden fierceness that Ed recognized, but couldn't place.

"No one, Mother," the Colonel's voice answered her convincingly. "It was an accident. I don't even know how you can tell, honestly—the bones are completely mended by now . . . mostly."

"The _bones_?" the woman asked, putting emphasis on the plural. "What did you do to yourself?"

"Nothing, I told you it was an accident."

"An accident?"

"Yes, Mother, an accident. I promise. And I don't want to hear anything from _you_, Tamalynn."

"Hm? I didn't say _anything_." The third voice belonged to another woman, light and without an accent that Edward could tell.

"But you were going to," the Bastard stated sulkily. "Maybe something like, 'As someone who controls fire, I think you'd learn to be a little less clumsy.' Was that it?"

"Actually, I was gonna say that now that you've broken your leg, we're gonna have to shoot you."

_Hm._ Edward decided that he liked this girl.

The Bastard huffed. "All right, you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

"I'm sure."

"I'm _serious_," he answered her bluff, smirk apparent in his voice.

"Ugh! _Mother_."

"Royce, you cannot possibly expect for your sister to sleep on your couch," his mother told him, her voice low. "And it's uncivilized of you to suggest it."

"Oh, Mother," Tamalynn said loftily. "What can you expect? Brother is _hardly_ civilized."

"Now Tamalynn, don't speak like that about your brother when he's standing right there."

There was a short pause, before the Colonel spoke again. "Hm . . . I should be insulted, but I really can't find the strength."

"See?" Tamalynn said. "Brother agrees with me."

"Hn. In truth Tamalynn, you'll have to room with Mother this time. I currently have a house guest and he's staying in your room."

"_What?_"

There was the quick beat of heels from below and Edward was suddenly looking over the railing at who could have only been the Bastard's sister, Tamalynn. Even if he hadn't just overheard the conversation between the three people in the foyer, the chances that he would have mistaken her for anyone other than a Mustang were slim. Same basic facial structure, same pale skin, same black hair . . . and she was scowling up at him with the same slanted, onyx eyes.

"So, are you the half-pint who took over my room?" she asked and Edward immediately took back what he said about liking her.

* * *

**Eh, not exactly how I wanted to end it, but what can ya do, huh?**

**Anyway guys, thanks for reading! I'm not sure how much I'll get done over the summer, since I'll be taking Photography and Art & the Computer at school and hopefully have a job with Nana. (sighs) I'm sorry that this is taking so long to get out, but I promise y'all that I will **_**never**_** abandon this fic and beg of you to have some patience with me.**


	11. Five

**Disclaimer: I own . . . this shirt I'm wearing. Really nothing else.**

"_The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance—it is the illusion of knowledge."_

-Daniel J. Boorstin

* * *

**Chapter XI: Five **

"How old is he?"

The question came out of nowhere and Roy hoped that the dishtowel he held was enough to hide the sudden trembling of his hands. He glanced sidelong at his mother, who had her arms elbow-deep in the soapy dishwater of his kitchen sink, and noted with some relief that she wasn't looking at him.

He cleared his throat. "You mean Elric?" he asked as Mai Yao Mustang handed him another plate to dry. "I believe he turned sixteen last October. Why?"

The shrug of her delicate shoulders was subtle. "No reason," she stated mildly. "I was just thinking about all of his accomplishments that I'd heard about—the State Alchemist exam; that Barry the Butcher incident; the train hostage situation—and found myself wondering how such a young boy could have done all those things. Even though he looks his age, if not younger, I can't say that it doesn't surprise me that he's not older than a mere sixteen. Of course, his display at dinner tonight hardly seemed anything more than juvenile."

His mother trailed off there and a somewhat tense silence fell over the kitchen. Roy shifted uncomfortably as he dried one of his ice tea glasses and placed it on the rack, but he pointedly said nothing. Mai Yao wasn't done, he knew.

And sure enough, just when the tension in the room had become so tight Roy was sure it would snap, she spoke:

"I also ask because . . . he's a bit young for you, isn't he?"

There was the tinkle of breaking china as the teacup Roy had been drying slipped from his grasp, bounced off the edge of the counter, and shattered on the floor near his feet. Neither he nor his mother moved to clean the shards. The Flame stared open-mouthed at his companion, watching her as she calmly scrubbed away at a soup bowl she'd found soaking in the murky water.

"W-what?" he stuttered out. "What did you ask me, Mother?"

"I asked you if you thought that he wasn't a bit too young for you to be—oh, what's a delicate way to phrase this?—entering into a relationship with?"

Roy blinked. He'd known that both his mother and Tamalynn knew his preferences when it came to who he involved himself with, regarding gender. He wasn't sure exactly when Tamalynn had found out, but he knew for a fact that his mother had discovered the secret back whenever he was a teenager, mere months after he himself had learned that he seemed to prefer looking at and thinking about men as opposed to women.

When he'd first discovered this, he had loathed himself. It was an easy thing to do, what with the way his father was and how he spoke of people like Roy: "fags", "queers", and "freaks".

"_Sick weirdos,"_ he'd say to his hunting buddies as they sat around chewing the beef. _"They should all just be taken out to a field, tied up—"_

"_I bet they'd like that,"_ someone would interject, laughing madly in a way that reminded Roy of a donkey.

"—_and set on fire. After all, what use are they to normal society?"_

Needless to say, listening to talk like this from the time he was old enough to understand what was being said was enough to give Roy a bit of a complex. It had been his mother—kind, caring, and unbelievably dangerous—to ground him once again; she'd taken his pale face in her hands and said, _"My Royce, no matter what you do, you cannot make me stop loving you. You are my son."_

"_But, Father—"_ Roy had begun, only to be interrupted by the low hiss of his mother shushing him.

"_Your father is a good man, don't you forget that. It's just that sometimes he lacks tolerance and compassion. I know that he loves you very much, but I don't think that this is something that we should tell him, my child. It shall remain just between us, yes?"_

Roy had nodded, more thankful than his 17-year-old mind could comprehend at that point. When his mother had caught him sneaking off in the dead of night with a young man from the nearby town of Kettleperch, Roy had fully expected to be torn apart.

"_And how much do I love you?"_

Roy's cheeks had flushed with embarrassment, but his smile had been genuine and warm with relief as he'd answered the question his mother hadn't asked him since he was a child. _"To the sky and through the sky, Mother."_

Back in the present, the Colonel grinned wryly as he remembered how the petite woman standing beside him had then berated him for trying to slip away at that time of night and punished him for two weeks.

Glancing over at his mother, he was startled to find piercing black eyes studying him and he quickly hid his reminiscent mirth. "It's not like that at all, Mother," he told her, taking the handful of utensils she had been holding out to him. "He's down on his luck—his brother recently passed away and he was kicked out of the military—and needs a place to stay. He was my subordinate and I had the room to spare, so I volunteered."

Not exactly a lie and, as the old adage went, what his mother didn't know . . .

"You're sure?" she asked as she turned back to the dishes. The skepticism was etched into her voice. "What happened tonight: that certainly _felt_ like a lover's quarrel."

Roy sighed and moved away to get a dustpan to finally clean the teacup he had dropped earlier. When he returned, he found Mai Yao holding a soapy platter up to the light, inspecting it. "Mother," he said as he knelt and began sweeping up the cup's remains, "I guarantee you that Edward and I are the farthest thing from lovers you could possibly imagine. He despises me and I think him a petulant child—not to mention the fourteen year age gap between us. We aren't exactly a perfect match."

"But you care about him." It wasn't a question.

"I care about all of my subordinates," Roy replied levelly. He stood and moved to discard of the broken cup. "And ex-subordinates, as it were."

"Enough to bring them into your home?"

"Yes."

Both Mustangs turned to look at one another then. Fierce conviction burned brightly in Roy's dark eyes and he struggled to keep his face perfectly blank under his mother's scrutiny. It was hard to fool her; after all, it had been she who he had learned it from.

After several minutes, Mai Yao shrugged and turned back to the sink. "If you insist that there is nothing going on between the two of you, then I really have no choice but to believe you." Roy heaved a silent sigh of relief. "However, I will say this: if you were to choose him—"

"Mother—"

"_If you were_, I could certainly see why you would. He is . . . quite lovely."

Unbidden, an image of Edward, spread-eagle and panting on his bed, arose in Roy's mind. He immediately shook his head to dispel it and snorted, having to bite down on his tongue to keep himself from blurting out, "You don't know the half of it."

Oh, it was going to be a very bad week.

* * *

Tamalynn Mustang lifted her hand and grudgingly knocked on what had once been her guest bedroom's door—and, if she had any say in the matter, would be hers again before the Mustang clan's next visit. Much as she loved her parents, there was no way in hell that she was staying with them whenever they all came to spend a week with her beloved big brother. For one: the bed was much too small to hold three fully-grown people in it comfortably.

And for another: _Yech!_

At her knock there was a muffled curse and some distinctive shuffling. Scowling, the younger Mustang flipped her dark hair over her shoulder and pressed her ear against the door. She nearly yelped two seconds later when the door was jerked open to reveal her brother's glaring blonde houseguest.

When his golden eyes settled on her, his stormy expression cleared a bit. "Oh," he said eloquently. "I thought you were Mustang."

Tamalynn put her hands on her hips. "I _am_ a Mustang."

Edward Elric rolled his eyes. "I thought you were _my_ Mustang." The young woman quirked a thin, black eyebrow and watched in amusement as the blonde turned a rather remarkable shade of red. "You know what I mean," she heard him mutter before he turned back to the room, leaving the door open for her.

She entered and shut it behind her, looking around. "I just came up to see what kind of havoc you had wreaked on my room. That hole over there is definitely new. And . . . hey, you moved my bed," she accused, just noticing that that particular article of furniture had been moved from its previous location near the window to the other side of the room.

Edward looked down at the thing on which he now sat, as if to confirm that, yes, it was a bed, and then looked back up at Tamalynn. "Yeah, so?" he asked in that infuriatingly childish manner that made Tamalynn want to grind her teeth together. "When the sun came through the windows in the morning, it would hit me right in the face. So I moved the bed. When I leave, you can move it back if it bothers you so much."

Tamalynn glowered at the teen, trying to convey every ounce of ire she currently felt for him into the expression. She couldn't explain why the moving of her bed was more disturbing to her than the fist-sized hole in the wall near her dresser; maybe it was simply the fact that the bed was a far more personal item, even if she only slept in it two or three weeks out of the year.

Crossing her arms across her modest chest, Tamalynn huffed and asked in a growl, "And when exactly will that be?"

Edward stared at her for a moment before shutting his eyes and turning away. "I dunno," he told her, his voice quiet.

Tamalynn rolled her dark eyes and bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying something scathing to the boy. It wouldn't do to upset him and have him trash her room any more than it already was. Instead, she blew her bangs from her face and said, "Mother wanted me to come up and tell you that lunch was ready. She made chicken salad sandwiches. If that's all right with you, _Your Highness_." The dark-haired woman was half-tempted to mock-bow to the young alchemist; however, as she was reaching down to catch her skirt for a curtsy, she saw the expression on the blonde's face.

It wasn't anger or embarrassment as she'd thought it might be—he was staring at her, his eyes glazed over, mouth slightly open. Her irritation almost immediately dissipated and she moved towards him. "Edward?" she said, waving a pale hand in front of his face. "Are you okay?"

Her voice seemed to snap Ed out of it. He blinked, the glassy look disappearing, and jerked away from her hand. "H-huh?" he stammered, a wine-coloured blush staining his tanned cheeks.

"I thought I'd lost you there," Tamalynn said, tilting her head to one side. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," the blonde murmured, turning his face away to hide his apparent discomfiture. After a long pause—during which Tamalynn considered forgetting waiting for an explanation and simply heading back downstairs for lunch—Edward hunched his shoulders and, as though every word was causing him pain, grumbled to her, "You just look like him, is all."

Tamalynn blinked.

And then a Cheshire-like grin nearly split her face in two. "_Oh_," she said, straightening and unnecessarily dusting off her cream-coloured skirt. "Well, _that_ explains a lot."

Edward tensed and then spun around so fast that Tamalynn nearly got whiplash just watching him. His teeth were borne in a feral grimace and the blush had taken on an ugly puce tone. "_What?_" he snarled at her.

And honestly, she must have had a death wish. Not backing down, the woman only grinned the wider. "Oh, it just all makes so much _sense_ now!" She leaned down uncomfortably close to the homicidal-looking face before her and whispered, "You're one of Roy's boy-toys."

The colour that Ed turned at that particular statement actually frightened Tamalynn and she pulled her face back somewhat. The teen then made the sound of air being let out of a wet balloon and wheezed, "That is . . . that's just . . . you are . . ." After this string of nonsensical fragments, he panted for a few minutes—mostly turning back to his normal colour in the process, save for the blush that now clung to his cheeks like lichen to a stone wall—then snorted and turned away again. "That has to be the most fucking _ridiculous_ thing I've ever heard. Roy Mustang, the most infamous womanizer in all of Central, taking an interest in _me_. The idea is absolutely _absurd_."

The young woman made a brief mental note that Edward Elric apparently did not yet know that, given the choice, her brother would choose a man as a partner over a woman any day, and filed it away for later use. Right now, there was something else bothering her: despite the venomous words leaving his mouth, Tamalynn could feel something not quite right radiating off of the teen—an emotion that she couldn't quite place. She couldn't work it out, but if felt as though Edward was . . . sulking, maybe?

Shrugging mentally, Tamalynn pushed herself upright once again and hummed thoughtfully to herself. "Perhaps I was mistaken, then," she conceded.

"Damned right you were," Edward muttered, glancing askance at her with one molten eye.

Tamalynn smirked, watching in amusement as a tic suddenly formed below Edward's left eye. "Anyway," she said, turning away from the blonde and heading towards the door. "If you don't hurry up, lunch is going to grow mould on it." She put her hand on the doorknob, prepared to exit the room; however, something the blonde had said from earlier hit her and she looked over her shoulder at him. "And of course I look like him, idiot. I am his sister after all. I mean, don't you have any siblings?"

The smile on her face faltered somewhat as she looked at Edward. His face, which moments before had been pink-tinged and pinched in rage, had gone slack; his golden eyes had darkened as he stared out of the window, seeing something beyond what Tamalynn did. The alchemist looked wistful. "Yeah," he said finally, startling Tamalynn at the hushed tone of his voice. "My little brother."

"And does he look like you?"

In the long silence that followed this question, the dark-haired woman shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether or not she should have asked. This had suddenly taken a turn from playful bickering to something far more serious. When Edward finally did croak out his answer, tears leaking down his face, Tamalynn wished with every fibre of her being that she had never been asked to come up here.

"No. He . . . he was nothing . . . like me."

Edward clapped a flesh hand to his face, as though trying to keep the tears in, his whole body shaking from the sobs that now tore through him; he rolled away from his audience, curling up into a fetal ball and clutching desperately at his hair as he continued to cry.

He cried and he cried and Tamalynn stood there with her hand on the doorknob and felt like she wanted to die.

* * *

Havoc was staring at him.

He had been doing it all day and Roy couldn't deny that it was starting to grate on his nerves. It wasn't as though he wasn't used to people gawking avidly at him—he _was_ Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist, after all. It was just that the staring didn't usually come from either of his first lieutenants, or anyone else in his squad for that matter.

And when it did, it normally didn't bode well for him.

Roy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache forming in his temples. His aggravation was increasing and it took a lot of willpower not to simply tell the blonde that, if he had suddenly switched sides and was in dire need of a boyfriend, then he should talk to Fuery, because the younger man had been nursing a crush on him for the last year.

The Colonel doubted the short, bespectacled man would appreciate it and he definitely couldn't afford to have the gifted technician ask to switch commanding officers. Especially not right now.

Scar was on the move. He'd come out of hiding briefly, being spotted on the outskirts of a few small desert towns in the East. From what they gathered about the locations of the sightings and the direction that he seemed to be headed, the general consensus was that there was only one place he could be headed:

Liore.

That in itself was a problem, since it would make it much harder to capture the scarred man. Liore was currently experiencing what could only be called a massive uprising, caused by Cornello, the false prophet whom Fullmetal had supposedly gotten rid of. The fact of the matter was that soldiers weren't exactly welcomed with open arms into the city; Scar would more likely receive a warmer reception than anyone with a blue uniform would.

It was extremely frustrating, knowing where the serial killer was and not being able to go after him.

There was also the complicated and heart-wrenching task of finding Hughes' killer. He had gotten no further along on the investigation since he had last spoken to Major Armstrong. In some ways, it was even more frustrating than trying to track down Scar; with the alchemist killer, at least he knew who and approximately where the man was. With Hughes' murderer, he remained painfully oblivious to those facts.

And then there was his home situation, which he was trying not to think about too much, since it only caused the pounding behind his eyes to get worse:

There was the ever-present overflow from work that he had to bring to his house to take care of, lest he have to come in early the next morning to deal with it; his visiting family and seeing to their needs caused its own set of problems, not to mention taking care to be sure that they didn't figure out anything about the moody blonde that was currently staying with him and exactly _why_ said blonde was so extraordinarily moody at this time.

Roy just thanked whatever deities were sniggering over his rather pitiful existence right now that they hadn't decided to impose his father on him. Despite a rocky relationship, the Colonel could honestly say that he loved his father—he just didn't think he could stand both him _and_ Fullmetal in his house at the same time.

Not to mention the fact that his father was ex-military and, in the off-chance he uncovered anything about Fullmetal's pregnancy, he was obligated to report it.

And Havoc was still staring at him.

"Don't you have work to be doing, _Lieutenant_?" Roy snapped, the thinning thread of patience he'd carried with him all day long finally breaking.

Hawkeye didn't even look up from the report she was reading, because surely Roy Mustang wouldn't be talking to _her _in that tone of voice; Havoc, however, flailed comically as he babbled away what might pass for an apology and then attempted to shove himself into a box of files.

Fuery, ever the mother hen of the group, was looking concerned and more than a little shocked, both over Roy's sudden shouting and Havoc's unsuccessful disappearing act; Breda wasn't bothering trying to control his mirth and was laughing openly at his blonde friend's misery; Falman just looked rather perturbed by the disruption to the monotonous routine of the office.

Roy scoffed and stood from his desk.

"I'm going to lunch," he stated irritably, moving towards the door. He half-expected for Hawkeye to object to his sudden abandonment of his post and for a bullet to go whizzing by his head. However, Hawkeye must have sensed his agitation and let him leave the office without a single dispute. And for that, he was extraordinarily grateful.

The Flame heaved a sigh as he made his way towards the mess hall. He just needed some time away from the paperwork and Havoc's penetrating gaze to gather his thoughts and relieve some tension. If he could just have an hour or so to rebuild his defenses, then he just might be able to make it through the rest of the day without setting anyone on fire.

The thing weighing most heavily on his mind, unfortunately, was the one thing he could do absolutely nothing about: the incident during dinner Monday night.

"_Just leave me alone!"_

"_But Ed—"_

"_I _said _to leave me alone! I don't need your help and I never did. I didn't need you constantly looking over my fucking shoulder, manipulating us to do your dirty work for you."_

"_I was watching out for you."_

"_Bullshit, you were watching out for yourself. We were your best investment, me and Al—watching our backs was like scratching your own. You never cared about us, so don't pretend like you did. Not after . . . not after what happened to Al. Why weren't you watching us _then_, huh?"_

"_. . ."_

"_Just go away, Bastard."_

"_Edward, please."_

"_Go away. You've done _quite_ enough, thanks."_

"_. . . That's _it_! I can't take this anymore—I don't know where you get off being so sanctimonious about all this, especially when the reason we're in this situation to begin with is your fault!"_

"My_ fault?"_

"_Oh, don't give me that, Fullmetal. You know _exactly _what I'm talking about! So you have no right to treat me like I'm the one holding sole responsibility for this mess we're in! Not when I was the one trying to do the right_ _thing and you were . . . you just . . ."_

"_. . ."_

"_You know what, I can't take this. I quit. Do whatever the hell you want, I don't care anymore. In fact, I doubt I ever did . . ."_

In that moment, standing in his bathroom doorway and pettily arguing with the young man carrying his child, the Colonel had been nearly sick with rage over Fullmetal's impudence and stubbornness. He'd let his feelings froth over and spill out onto the tile between them and, at the time, it had felt wonderful to release all the pent-up tension and hostility. Now, however, Roy regretted how he'd handled the situation. He'd lost his temper with a sick, scared, hormonal teenager prone to sarcasm and mood swings on even the best of days. It wasn't something he was proud of. And it wasn't only that.

"_Why weren't you watching us _then_, huh?"_

Roy stopped in the hall, letting the light flow of hurrying soldiers ebb around him as his thoughts swirled about uselessly inside his skull. What Edward had said had sent the cold void of guilt that had settled against his diaphragm into overdrive. Because despite what Hawkeye and his inner-Maes said to the contrary, Roy still blamed himself for Al's death. No, he hadn't been the one to do it and no, he didn't know who had, but he still felt that he was not guiltless for that summer night.

_If only I'd kept them under my thumb that night_, he sometimes caught himself thinking late at night when there was no work or screaming Edward to distract him from his own mind. Roy was able to control the Elric's actions (to a certain degree, of course—the demolished buildings were sure testaments to what he couldn't do) on missions, but very seldom oversaw their travel back to Central. Unless he spotted something for them to take care of on their way, he often disregarded the brothers' trips back.

That night he'd had no idea that they had scheduled an early return. Maybe if he had . . .

"Hey, Chief!"

Roy started at the voice and any thoughts beyond _maybe_ were lost momentarily. Glancing over his shoulder, the Colonel saw Havoc jogging towards him down the near-deserted hall, his arm raised in greeting. The dark-haired groaned and started walking again, trying to put some distance between his subordinate and himself. However, Havoc's longer legs caught him up to Roy in no time.

"Chief, wait," the blonde man panted even as he came up level with his commanding officer.

"Don't you have things to be doing?" Roy asked flatly. He was trying to keep his aggravation from showing through. "Lieutenant Hawkeye can't be pleased that two members of the office are out on an early lunch."

Havoc, far from looking concerned, grinned. "Boy, was she. Fired a couple of rounds at me as I ran out but, as you can see, she missed me." He patted himself on the chest with both hands, as though he were saying, _See, Chief? No holes here._

_That's because the holes are all in your head,_ Roy barely avoided saying. He sighed. "She didn't _miss_ you, Lieutenant. If Hawkeye ever fires at one of us and misses, then we'll most likely be dead."

Jean Havoc's throat moved and his grin wavered. "Yeah, well . . . um . . ." He cleared his throat around the toothpick he had wedged into the corner of his mouth

The two of them fell into silence as they made their way towards the mess hall, Havoc's shoes making a rubbery scraping sound against the tile along the way. He said nothing. Roy's teeth ground together and his fingers moved in circles against each other, sending off faint sparks. Still, Havoc said nothing. Roy sucked in a breath through his nostrils, smelling ozone and tobacco, and clicked his tongue against his palette. The minutes ticked by until they were nearly upon the mess hall doors. And finally, Havoc said something.

"I need to ask you something . . . about something that I heard . . . I think."

The Flame glanced askance at his unwanted companion and stopped short of the mess doors; he was hungry and his patience was quickly waning. "Something?" he asked the blonde.

"It's about . . . about what you and Hawkeye were talking about in the office the other day."

Roy stiffened. Havoc was watching him, possibly for a reaction to the question or in expectation. The Colonel wasn't sure. He offered nothing.

Havoc swallowed. "It's just . . . y'know . . . We're all—all of us—worried about the Boss. And we wanna do everything we can to help him through this, but . . . I dunno. It's like you and the Lieutenant . . . you're keeping things from the rest of us . . ."

Roy felt the fracture.

"I mean, what you were talking about in the office. What was that about? Not . . . I mean, that couldn't have been about Ed, right?"

It started at his right temple, sending slivers and chips of marble flying.

"Sure you said his name, but the way you were talking, it just . . . it sounded like . . . And he's not. That's just . . . impossible. Right?"

It dragged its way distortedly across his cheekbone and over the bridge of his nose in a jagged line.

"I mean, sure he was sick all those weeks back and yeah, he's been gaining weight from what I can tell in the few times I've seen him and he's eating all this weird stuff and, apparently, sending you out for ice-cream at odd hours of the night, but . . . I mean . . ."

Once it had conquered that peak, it wound its way down his left cheek like a black, cavernous tear.

"That's impossible. I'm wrong. Right?"

His mask cracked.

And realization suddenly passed like a cloud across Havoc's sky-blue eyes.

Yes. Definitely, _definitely_ a very bad week.

* * *

**Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry for the long wait, my wonderiferous readers. School and job and life and blahblahblah. It's Winter Intersession for us right now, so I'll try to get the next chapter up sometime soon. Promise.**

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